


Turning Tables

by SeptimaBode



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Betrayal, Dark Draco Malfoy, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotionally Disturbed Draco Malfoy, F/M, HP: EWE, Hiatus, Manipulative Relationship, On Hiatus, Prisoner of War, Psychopath Draco, Sexual Content, Twisted, bad things happen, blurred lines
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 15:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 73,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13744329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeptimaBode/pseuds/SeptimaBode
Summary: I can't keep up with your turning tables, under your thumb, I can't breathe.The lines between black & white, right & wrong, & everything in between become blurred, thanks to the subterfuge of a determined Death Eater.  The Ministry would do anything, anything at all to destroy the last vestiges of the Dark Lord, even bow to a ridiculous request.All he wants in return is Hermione Granger...and they will give her to him.





	1. Glimpses of Madness

 Glimpses of Madness

* * *

 

The dark red blood dripped off the tips of his fingers in fat droplets.  It was an eerie shade against his pale hands.  He blinked and it was still there.  He craned his head to listen and there it was, barely perceptible.  He could hear the muted sound as it hit the tile if he really tried.

 

He glanced at the distortion beside him.  It wasn’t real.  It couldn’t be real.  She was just another witch.  They were all just another witch.  None of them were _her_. She was upstairs fretting like she always did.  She wasn’t there, crumpled on the floor.  

 

Her hair wasn’t matted to the indentures of her skull.  Her nose wasn’t flattened, purple, and lying against her cheek.  Her lips were not stretched wide in a scream that would burst his ears if it could be heard.  Her fingernails weren’t torn and ragged from desperately seeking purchase on the ornate carpeting.  Her breath absolutely did not rattle in her chest until she was still.

 

She wasn’t real.  She wasn’t real.  She wasn’t real.

 

He let himself be pulled from the room, though his eyes never left her.  He was haunted by the vision of her prone position.  Was her leg supposed to look like that?  Did limbs really twist into lumps of ragged flesh?  He didn’t ask, but he wanted the answer.  

 

The hot water scalded his skin and he didn’t even wince.  How did he get upstairs?  Who drew his bath?  Where was she?  Was someone tending her?  Was she all right now?  If she wasn’t, who was going to tuck him into bed and tell him what a good boy he was?

 

He blinked and counted just the way he was taught, but he still couldn’t see anything but her.  He knew she wasn’t there in his bath.  He knew she was down _there_ , on the cold floor, with those men standing around her.  Were they watching over her?

 

There were strong fingers that touched his skin and he didn’t like it.  Her fingers were soft and sure.  These were different.  They were calloused and hard.  They didn’t feel like her.  Was she coming back?

 

He choked and gasped on the water when it struck his face.  Did he do that?  Was it _his_ hand that turned the water pink?  Where were his clothes?  What was that wretched, choking, gasping, drowning, sound?  Why was he screaming?

 

He awoke later, in the dead of night, ensconced in nothing more than shadow.  He didn’t like the dark.  Even as a small child, it had frightened him.  He longed for the soothing caress that never came.  He knew it would never come again.  She was gone.  She was gone and it was by his hand.  It was his fault.  He had failed.  He had failed horribly and the price he was forced to pay was his mother’s life.

 

* * *

Year One

* * *

 

He stared out the windows unseeing.  His throat was sore from the screams while he slept.  His eyes followed the strut of the peacocks without interest.  It was summer, he knew that much.  It was summer and his mother was dead.

 

Dumbledore was dead.  McGonagall was dead.  His mother was dead.  He wished the Dark Lord were dead, but he knew better than to voice it.  There were moments he wished he were dead, but life had dealt him a cruel hand.

 

His silence and penchant for cruelty raised him quickly through the ranks.  He didn’t care about the ranks.  He didn’t care about the reverence that came with being part of the Inner Circle.  He didn’t care that he had bypassed his aunt when it came to the Dark Lord’s sparing approval.

 

Instead, he focused on one thing.  It wasn’t the blood that he constantly saw on his fingertips.  It wasn’t the haggard pinched face of his father.  It wasn’t the tolling lessons in Occlumency that were no longer necessary.  No, it was a singular moment that became his obsession.

 

He almost smiled when he thought of it, almost.  It reminded him he was real, wasn’t that funny?  He’d never required a reminder when his mother was alive.  He didn’t want to think about that.  His throat was still sore from the screaming and Severus wasn’t due with another Potion for hours yet.

 

He studied the worn page of the Daily Prophet gripped between his pale calloused hands and focused on her.  She was smiling.  It was an old picture, but it was all he had.  She helped him cling to the bare vestiges of humanity.  He couldn’t wait to have her.

 

He knew she cared about him.  He’d heard her worries and others were quick to pass along the gossip to his willing ears.  He’d kept a careful eye on her, but it was much more difficult now.  He hadn’t been permitted to return to Hogwarts for his final year.  Words like ‘unstable’ were thrown around and it set him to fits.

 

He knew she was there.  Snape was Headmaster and told him.  She was just as insufferable as ever, which suited him just fine.  He liked her fire.

 

He liked the way her coffee brown eyes met his without fear.  He wouldn’t have survived this long without her.  It was such a little thing, Severus tried to tell him it meant nothing, but he knew better.  She loved him.  He’d prove everyone wrong once he had her.

 

_“It wasn’t there!”  Harry Potter shouted._

 

_“What do you mean it wasn’t there?”  Hermione hissed._

 

_“Just what I said.  I bet he took it.  I bet he’s hidden it away to keep his Master from—“_

 

_“Harry, you’re being ridiculous,” she huffed._

 

_“I should have killed him when I had the chance,”  Harry spat._

 

_“You’re letting your anger get the best of you.  You were certain he was plotting with Death Eaters to take over the castle and that didn’t happen.  You were there when Dumbledore offered him aid.  He’s just as trapped as you are, Harry.”_

 

_He stepped from the shadows then and sneered nastily at Potter.  The hate rolled off him in waves, but he faltered.  His wand was pointed in the Chosen Bastard’s direction, but then Granger smiled at him.  She casually raised her hand and pushed down his wand.  She squeezed his fist and stood in front of him._

 

_“Hermione, get out of the way!”  Ron Weasley roared, yet Hermione didn’t waver._

 

_“No.  We have a job to do and it does not include terrorizing other students.  Come on!”  Hermione released his hand and he didn’t like that at all._

 

_“Stay safe,”  he sputtered as she dragged her idiots behind her._

 

_She threw another brilliant smile over her shoulder and shouted, “you too!”_

 

He knew Potter and Weasley hadn’t returned to Hogwarts.  He knew they wouldn’t.  They were not remotely dedicated to their education.  He was surprised they had been offered such highly esteemed jobs within the Ministry, considering the Dark Lord survived.

 

He wasn’t nearly as active as he once was, but the Order definitely had their hands full.  He’d laughed for the first time in a year when Greyback had been captured.  Merlin, how he had hated that disgusting excuse for a man.  Of course, the werewolf trash had been broken out of Azkaban a few months later, but he hadn’t been brought back to the Manor and that’s all that mattered.

 

“Draco, it’s time for your Potion.”

 

“I don’t want it!”

 

Severus Snape carefully stepped into Draco’s darkened bedchamber and held the phial aloft.  His black hair swung against his cheek and his black eyes remained unmoved by the outburst.  He’d told Lucius the boy didn’t need the Potion, but Lucius was determined to keep his son under his thumb.

 

It made him compliant and Lucius did like compliant.  However, it was different this time.  Severus had accidentally spilt the Potion into Lucius Malfoy’s tea.  The fire had gone out of the man, which is exactly what was intended.

 

“Draco, it’s your birthday.  I thought you’d enjoy a visit to Diagon Alley.”

 

He pulled on his dressing gown and snarled over his shoulder.  He didn’t care it was his birthday.  He couldn’t remember how old he was anyway.  Everything was measured in moments filled with blood tipped fingers.

 

“I’m not taking that fucking Potion.  You know what it does to me.”

 

“It isn’t the same.  The Dark Lord has decided you’ve been sedated long enough,”  Severus drawled.  It was a small lie, but there was no one present to detect otherwise.

 

“What is it then?”  Draco finally turned from the window and licked his lips.

 

“You were always quite adept at Potions, why don’t you tell me?”

 

Severus sniffed in disdain as Draco wrenched the phial from his fingers.  The stopper was dropped to the floor without preamble and Draco inhaled lightly.  He sneezed and his entire face changed.  He swallowed it quickly and coughed as it worked its way down.

 

“Pepper-Up Potion, gods, it's been ages since I’ve had one.”  Draco smiled and for once, it reached his eyes.  It was gone just as quickly as it came and he looked a bit like a lost child as he looked at his former Professor.  “Severus?”  Draco asked.  “How old am I?”

 

“Nineteen, Draco,”  Severus informed him sadly.  “You’re nineteen.”

 

* * *

Year Two

* * *

 

He whistled a jaunty tune and strode down Diagon Alley with purpose.  He liked the way the skittish witches scurried out of his way.  It made him feel powerful.  He even liked the grumbles of malcontent that stemmed from the wizards.

 

It wasn’t his fault he had more money than they’d ever dream of seeing in a lifetime.  Hadn’t they learned ages ago that galleons in the right hand made all the difference?  He supposed they were correct in their assumptions.  He probably _should_ be rotting in Azkaban.  His father certainly didn’t enjoy his year of incarceration.

 

He knew she had spoken for him.  Of course, she did.  She loved him.  It was only reasonable that she would stand before the Wizengamot to speak on his behalf.  He hadn’t been present, but between Severus and the Daily Prophet, he’d gotten the gist of it.

 

He hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to her.  He was biding his time.  She had just finished her schooling and began her career.  It wasn’t the time for indulging in romantic relationships.  He understood that.

 

He browsed the shelves of Flourish and Blotts with a vengeance.  It had been so long since he was allowed to leave the Manor without supervision, he was determined to enjoy every moment.  He was intrigued by the smattering of Muggle novels they had recently begun stocking.  He wondered if she had something to do with it.

 

Unbeknownst to his hovering caretaker, he had purchased a quaint cottage off the cliffs of Tintagel.  No one would ever suspect him there.  It was quiet, just the way he liked it best.  He hoped she’d like it there.

 

He intended on filling the bookshelves with everything that might strike her fancy.  The walled garden was his favourite.  He’d made sure the elves had planted his mother’s favourites and even dug a small vegetable patch.  He wanted everything to be perfect.

 

Severus had taught him the Fidelius Charm and it had taken him forever to properly sort it out.  He loved Snape’s patience.  He didn’t recall the stodgy old wizard being quite so accommodating before, but everything was different now.

 

“Is that Malfoy?”

 

He bristled at the venom in the voice and did not turn.  He simply gathered his armload of books and made his way to the counter.  Severus said it was best to ignore the jibes and he did just that.

 

“Ron, leave him be,”  she sighed.

 

He dropped half a dozen books and gulped hard.  He didn’t think she’d be here.  It wasn’t her usual day.  He thought it would be safe, but he was wrong.

 

“How can you say that?”  Ronald Weasley’s voice grew louder and the patrons glared at him.

 

“He lost his mother.  I know how that feels.  I know how it eats at you, just leave him be.”

 

He tried to pick up his books but they simply kept tumbling to the ground.  He was growing frustrated with his inability to manage.  He huffed angrily as a rather large tome on Herbology bounced off his toe.

 

“Fuck,”  he hissed.

 

“Here,”  she offered and he blinked in shock.  “You could levitate them.  I do it all the time.”

 

“T-they don’t like it when I use my magic,”  he stammered nervously.  “Thank you.”

 

He ducked his head and hurried away, yet she followed him.  He hadn’t realised he was littering the floor with his fallen books in his haste to escape.  He wasn’t ready, not yet.  He needed more time.

 

“You know better Mr Malfoy,”  the surly shopkeep crossed his arms and glowered at the taller man.

 

“Yes, I know.  I-I usually make my purchases through owl, but I wanted to see what was new myself and I didn’t think it would be an issue.  You’ve taken my galleons through owl, but now you’re refusing in person?  I don’t understand.”  He withdrew his bulging pouch of galleons and winced as they scattered across the counter.

 

“Malfoy, you dropped these.”

 

The change in the shopkeep was instantaneous and he was suddenly quite angry.  He wasn’t a bloody pauper.  He hadn’t done a fucking thing to the man and yet he was treated as though he were dirt?  This was completely unacceptable.

 

“Ms Granger, how lovely to see you today.  I’ve put aside that rare copy of _Potioneers_ for you.  I heard you were looking for it and—“

 

“That won’t be necessary,”  she said so coldly he glanced at her in surprise.  “I don’t think I’d like to spend my galleons in a shop where customers are treated so poorly.  I didn’t work this hard and risk my life to fight prejudices only to stumble across it daily.”

 

She crossed her arms and downright glowered at the elder wizard until his light eyes were lowered in obvious abashment.  She tapped her toe angrily and sighed.  She shook her head and the escaped tendrils at her temples bounced with the movement.  She was a sight to behold when she was angry and he vowed to see more of it.

 

“I apologise, Mr Malfoy.  Feel free to shop as you wish.  I would be happy to hold your purchases at the counter until you’re ready.”

 

“It seems thank you is the theme of the day,”  he said.  He offered a half smile and she patted his forearm sort of absently.  He knew her attention was elsewhere, but he wasn’t ready to part company.

 

She waved at someone behind him, but he wasn’t interested in them.  He was much more interested in the speckles of green in her dark brown eyes.  He was interested in the heady floral scent that enveloped him while they stood so close.

 

“I’ve got to go now.  You’ll be alright, yeah?”  She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment and he was mesmerized.

 

In retrospect, he supposed it wasn’t his most brilliant idea.  He probably should have kissed the back of her hand or offered a wave.  He was positive he had startled her, but he had already tugged her against him.  

 

It was strange to feel her in his arms, especially considering how stiff she was.  He held her for a moment and then, then she returned the gesture and he exhaled in relief.  Her curls tickled his nose and for some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, he felt his eyes fill with tears.

 

“Get off her!”  Ron Weasley roared.

 

He felt her step away and slowly dropped his arms.  She didn’t look angry with him, just surprised.  He surprised himself as well, but he also knew it was a memory he would hold dear.

 

“Sorry, I—“ he began and she blushed just before her eyes widened in horror.

 

“Stupefy!”

 

* * *

Year Three

* * *

 

The Daily Prophet burst into flames with the tip of his wand and he watched it burn.  His grey eyes darkened with simmering rage.  His lips curled and even his vision was splotched with red.  His fingernails sliced into his palms in perfect little half-moons and he barely felt the sting.

 

“I tried to tell you, Draco,”  Severus sighed deeply and sipped his morning concoction of tea with liberal amounts of sugar and milk.

 

“How long have you hid this from me?”  He inquired with a low growl.

 

“Does it matter?  The Order moves through life as though the Dark Lord no longer exists and it’s obvious the object of your affections has found happiness with a Weasley,”  Severus sneered.

 

He detested the blasé manner of the old Potions Master.  He nearly wished for his father’s presence, nearly.  He still hadn’t forgiven the man for his involvement in Narcissa’s death.  It was incredibly simplistic to banish him to the dungeons.  Perhaps the rats would keep him company.

 

He stormed from the cosy breakfast nook and set off for his rooms.  He felt the need to destroy something.  It was uplifting to feel something as mundane as anger.  He had spent far too much time wallowing in his losses.  It was time to regain what was his.

 

He stripped off his simple cotton shirt and blinked heavily.  The room spun slightly and he grasped the nearby bureau.  His head pounded ferociously, which caused his breaths to escape in great bursts.  He inspected his hands and immediately wiped them on his trousers.

 

He hated his fits.  They were debilitating and horrifying really, but what could be done?  The Potions merely numbed him and he was incapable of properly functioning.  It was what his father preferred but he didn’t give his father much thought anymore.  

 

Focus.  He needed to focus.  Blonde strands stuck to his fingers, no, not that.  Hoarse screams and guttural groans, no, not that either.  The sound of bones snapping and the splash of blood against his wrists.  Distraught sobs that segued into agony riddled whimpers.  Drowning, she was drowning.  Her lips were turning blue as the blood filled spittle rattled from between her swollen lips.  Pale hand against a bruised purple throat until the knuckles reddened and then he was screaming.

 

“Draco!”

 

He couldn’t hear the voice beyond the sound of his own screams.  His fingers latched onto his hair and formed into fists determined to tear every strand from his scalp.  His knees crashed to the floor and he would have winced if he could have felt the impact.

 

His jaw was clenched so tightly he felt his teeth grind together.  His forehead struck the carpet and the smell of his own sick filled his nostrils.  His throat was raw and he finally settled into a pathetic whimper.

 

The hands were calloused and familiar.  He didn’t struggle against them, even as the Potion was poured down his throat.  He swallowed greedily and his lungs greedily sucked in the fresh air filled with relief.

 

He woke hours later with a feminine handkerchief clutched against his cheek.  He fondly recalled the moment she had pressed it against his cheek.  She’d been furious with her ginger friend for attacking him.  She cared.  He knew she did.  She had to love him to defend him so vehemently.  She would be his, it was only a matter of time.

 

He crept from his bed and rinsed the clinging sweat from his body quickly.  He had to speak to Severus immediately.  He’d waited long enough.  He couldn’t waste any more time.  It was habit to dress in dark slacks and an equally dark button down.

 

He ventured down the back staircase and listened.  He heard the familiar tinkling of bottles and knew Severus was in the Potions Laboratory.  He loved the laboratory.  

 

It reminded him of easier times.  It reminded him of days when his biggest worry was being the best student.  Of course, Hermione Granger had ruined all that, yet it didn’t bother him as much now as it once did.  Intelligence had always attracted him and she was brilliant.

 

He stepped into the laboratory and inhaled.  He had always loved to play the guessing game with his Godfather.  It was one of his fondest childhood memories that didn’t involve the older blonde witch with the gentle hand and soothing voice.  He couldn’t think of her, not now.

 

“Feeling better, Draco?”  Severus constantly stirred his brew and gestured toward a nearby stool.

 

He eyed the shelves lined with the tightly stopped amber bottles curiously.  He knew Severus was nearly finished and watched him add one last scoop of lacewings to the cauldron with disinterest.  He’d learned to brew Polyjuice a handful of years earlier and was no longer a wide-eyed student easily impressed.  

 

He inspected his fingernails while Severus poured the potion into amber bottles.  It was soothing to watch him work.  He was tempted to swing his legs like he did when he was small, but he was much too tall for such antics.  When the last bottle was safely stored on the wooden shelf, he smiled.

 

“Severus, hypothetical question, just to pass the time.  Let’s pretend McGonagall wasn’t dearly departed.  Let’s say, Potter, out of sheer boredom, got into your Polyjuice coffers and decided he wished to spend the day as you.  Now, he then shags McGonagall and her cobwebbed lady bits are sparked to life and suddenly, she’s with child.  Would the child come out with your nose or Potter’s eyes?”

 

Severus Snape pursed his lips and closed his eyes.  He inhaled slowly through his abnormally large nose and refused to lose his temper.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head lightly.

 

“Draco, must we continue to play these games?”

 

“Humour me, Severus,”  Draco practically bounced on his stool as he needled his Godfather.

 

“Polyjuice does not alter one’s biology only the outward appearance.  This is common Third Year knowledge, I’d expect you to know this.”  The dark-haired wizard leant forward and pressed his elbows into the blackened stone workspace.

 

“Severus, we’ve been practically warring for bloody years, you can’t expect me to remember every minute detail.  Potter’s eyes then, interesting, I’ll be sure to remember that.”  Draco smirked and Severus saw a glimmer of the boy he once knew shining in familiar grey eyes.

 

“Draco, do I need to intervene?”  He was concerned considering Draco’s headspace, but the boy seemed impressively coherent.

 

“Intervene?  I haven’t done anything, _yet_.”

 

“Yet is the disconcerting part, my boy.”

 

“It’s just an idea, is all.  I’m ready for this war to end, but there’s something I want in exchange.”  His eyes flicked over his shoulder as though he expected listening ears.  He stretched forward and gently tapped his head with two fingers.

 

“Do you know where it is?”  Severus hissed.  His obsidian eyes widened.  He understood the understated implications and the idea that Draco was the key to the end of Voldemort made his breaths quicken.

 

“I know many things, but I shall not reveal my hand until—“

 

“What is it you require?”  Severus interrupted.

 

“Guess, Severus.”  He twirled his wand nonchalantly while he impatiently anticipated a reply.   “Alright, I’ll give you a hint then.  My mother wished for me to marry the best.  She whispered it to me before I killed her.  She didn’t say the prettiest or the best bred, she said the best.  Who do you think that is, Severus?  I mean, if you take my thoughts on the matter into account, what is it that I base my dalliances on when there’s a choice in the matter?”

 

Draco vacated his stool and stretched his arms over his head.  He felt good.  He felt really good.  He was surprisingly clear headed and it felt fucking divine.  He missed his old self and he was hopeful he could maintain his grasp on reality.

 

“Intelligence,”  Severus whispered, aghast as the realisation washed over him.

 

“Exactly!”  Draco slapped the workspace and rocked onto his toes.  It was electrifying to see his perfect plan come together.

 

“Draco, it’s insanity, you can’t honestly be suggesting—“  Severus dragged his bony hand down his greasy face and groaned.

 

“Hermione Granger?  Why yes, yes I am and I refuse to end this war until she’s mine.”

 


	2. The Meeting

The Meeting

* * *

 

The boring brown owl flew through the trees with the scroll of parchment firmly tied to her leg.  She loved the long journeys the most, but they were in short supply.  She skirted the low-hanging branches and fluttered to a stop near a familiar windowpane.  

 

She knew this place well.  The wizard was kind, but he was stingy with treats.  Sometimes, she nipped him just to remind him she wasn’t nearly as sweet as she looked.  She pecked the window and flapped her tawny wings until finally, the dark-skinned wizard cracked the window.

 

She could have fit through the small space, but she was tired.  She hooted her displeasure until he grumbled about ‘bloody birds’ and pushed open the window a bit more.  She hopped inside and ruffled her feathers to shake off the chill.

 

“Ruddy owl,”  the wizard grunted.

 

She held out her leg and allowed him to remove the parchment.  She really wanted her treat.  She’d flown all through the night to deliver her parcel.  She deserved something delicious.

 

“Ouch!”  

 

She watched the tall man with the strangely dark face reach into a small sack.  She hooted happily when he gifted her more than usual and then turned her attention to eating.  She was finally warm and her stomach was nicely full.  She hoped he’d take a very long time before she was sent off again.

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt read the missive slowly.  He was sure he misunderstood.  He hadn’t heard from the Order Spy in nearly two years and suddenly there was contact.  He read the words again and rubbed his forehead.

 

The Wizarding World had continued in its naivety and the Ministry had allowed it.  It was far easier to allow their constituents to believe the Dark Lord had been vanquished than to admit the truth.  Those that were present at the Not-So-Final-Battle swore they saw Voldemort disappear into a great cloud of black smoke.

 

The tale spread, as tales often do and soon everyone had moved on with their lives.  They laughed.  They loved.  They married.  They procreated.  They did everything the Ministry so desperately needed them to do.  It would have been lovely to say ‘all was well’, but it wasn’t.

 

Voldemort had fallen.  It was perfectly normal to assume he was dead.  The Order allowed themselves to be distracted by the sight and had segued into celebration.  The throng of students surged forward to surround Harry Potter and by the time the cacophony had dulled, Tom Riddle was gone.

 

It was a grievous error and one they had gone to great lengths to keep concealed.  The Wizengamot held closed-door secret sessions and had sworn each other to secrecy.  Death Eaters were rounded up and denied visitors and in some cases, representation, in order to keep their angry tirades cloaked in silence.

 

It wasn’t his proudest moment, Shacklebolt admitted, in the darkness of his flat.  With a heavy heart, he wrote a short response.  He knew he’d have to inform Harry Potter.  The boy had put his life on the line time and time again.  The Wizengamot had been so quick to give themselves praise, they hadn’t considered The Boy Who Lived was an integral part of their survival.

 

Kingsley set the kettle on and shuffled to his Floo.  It was ridiculously early.  Dawn hadn’t yet broken over the horizon and yet he still placed the Floo Call.

 

Harry angrily rubbed the sleep from his blurry eyes and cursed when he knocked his glasses off the nightstand.  He solemnly swore he would murder Ron if the bloke had left his wand at the pub again.  He often wondered what Hermione had done to Ron to ensure he’d never interrupt her sleeping hours.  Harry made a mental note to ask her while he stumbled to the Floo.

 

“Mr Potter,”  the deep voice startled him and Harry slipped on the bottom step.

 

“M-Minister?”

 

“There’s been contact.  Rouse Mr Weasley and be at the Ministry within the hour.”

 

“Hermione as well?”  Harry hurriedly finger combed his obnoxious dark hair and attempted to look presentable.

 

“Within the hour, Mr Potter!”

 

Harry stood there for a moment after the Minister for Magic disappeared and wondered what he should do.  He wasn’t used to doing well, anything really, without Hermione.  She made sure he kept a level head.  She forced him to utilise his logic when he’d much rather run head first into the fray and worry about the consequences later.

 

He supposed it was time for him to learn how to function without her, but at the same time, he scoffed.  Why should he?  She was always readily at his disposal.  They wouldn’t be a Golden Trio without Hermione, even though she did abandon them for a bit to finish up her education.

 

It wasn’t fair of him to think of it that way and Harry knew it.  He’d claimed he understood, but he still felt conflicted about it.  It had been years and he still wished Hermione had joined them at the Ministry immediately.  It was juvenile and time to let it go.  He vowed he would, especially with this special meeting with the Minister on the horizon.

 

Harry tromped up the stairs and burst into Ron’s bedchamber without knocking.  The snores alone revealed Ron’s presence and Harry didn’t waste any time at all when it came to waking Ron.  The snorts and grunts ebbed and in its place sat a very dishevelled, angry Ron.

 

“What the fuck, Harry, it’s bloody dark!”

 

“Yeah, I know.  The Minister expects us within the hour,”  Harry grumbled and ripped the blankets off the bed.  “Get a move on!”

 

“Oh what bollocks!  Hermione better have those eggy sandwiches of hers, otherwise, I don’t know how I’m going to get through this meeting.  I didn’t get to bed until half past four as it is!”  Ron begrudgingly set his feet on the floor and shivered from the chill.

 

“No Hermione, just us.  I’ll set the kettle on.”

 

Ron continued to gripe as he dressed and finally ambled down the stairs with only a few minutes to spare.  His shirt was haphazardly buttoned and his shoes didn’t match, but there wasn’t time for him to change.  Ron simply Charmed his shoes and called it good.

 

The Ministry was eerily quiet.  The only sound that could be heard was their steps as they walked across the marble floor.  It was shrouded in darkness and had quite an ominous feel.  Ron sipped his tea and winced as it burnt his tongue.  He didn’t understand the fuss.  A few more hours of shut-eye wasn’t too much to ask.  It’s not as if it was an emergency or anything.

 

The Aurors made their way to the Minister’s office and shuffled their feet.  Harry finally rapped on the door with hard knuckles and glowered at Ron.  Ron ignored him and yawned loudly when the Minister’s voice boomed forth.

 

“Enter!”

 

“That doesn’t sound good,”  Ron sighed.

 

Harry twisted the knob and stepped into the spacious office.  The fire roared in the stone fireplace, which cast a lovely yellow glow over everything.  The warmth was welcome with the chill of the early morn still clinging to their Auror trench coats.

 

“You!”  Harry snarled at the unexpected guest that sat beside the Minister.

 

The black eyes stared at him and a condescending sneer was painted on his thin lips.  Harry couldn’t believe his eyes.  He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Severus Snape since the Battle of Hogwarts and yet there the man sat beside the Minister for Magic as if he belonged there.  It was utterly outrageous!

 

“Sit, Mr Potter and take Mr Weasley down with you.  If you are unable to control yourselves, I’ll take your wands.”

 

Harry shoved Ron into one of the armchairs across from the Minister and hastily sat beside him.  His cheeks here puffed with anger and his breaths were raspy.  Ron glowered angrily and gripped his wand so tightly Harry was sure it was going to snap.

 

“I told you this was a bad idea,”  Severus quipped.

 

“What other option was there?  In order for this to succeed we need their cooperation,”  Kingsley hissed.

 

The air was thick with tension and it didn’t dissipate when the Minister for Magic finally met Harry’s eyes.  He could see the burning anger and understood it.  He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, never to this.  It wasn’t his decision to make, but then again, it wasn’t theirs either.  The one person who could truly make the choice was glaringly absent from the proceedings and it weighed heavily on his heart.

 

“As you well know, Mr Potter, Severus Snape has been an important ally for the Order for many years.  His loyalty to the Light has been tried and tested more times than can be counted.  If it weren’t for the unequivocal trust of Albus Dumbledore, I doubt we would currently be seated here today.  As it stands, there is much at stake and it would behove you to listen.”

 

Harry forced himself to look at Severus and bit his tongue.  It wouldn’t do to lash out at the man.  The Minister for Magic called this meeting for a reason and he’d never discover the answers if he allowed his temper to get the best of him.  He took a moment and allowed himself to wish for Hermione once more before he offered a slight nod.

 

“Tom Riddle created six horcruxes, which is common knowledge at this point of grievous malcontent,” Severus began.  “It is also well known that Harry Potter was an accidental horcrux, which even Tom Riddle had not realised was created at the time of James and Lily Potter’s deaths, which brings the number to seven—“

 

“Yeah, we know all this,”  Ron interrupted.

 

“ _If_ I may continue, Mr Weasley?”  Severus Snape’s voice dripped with disdain and paused.

 

“Sorry,”  Ron muttered, though he didn’t sound very sorry at all.

 

“The diary, ring, locket, cup, the godsforsaken snake and the piece of Riddle’s soul that resided within Harry Potter have all been destroyed.  However, the diadem has remained elusive…until now.”

 

Severus allowed his words to hang in the air for a moment.  He felt incredibly smug, especially when Harry Potter’s mouth fell open.  He expected nothing from Ronald Weasley and he wasn’t disappointed.  While the boy had grown into a man, Severus still couldn’t pretend he was fond of him.  The same could be said for Harry, but that was already understood.

 

“Where?”  Harry asked with bated breath.

 

“It has been hidden by an interested party whose identity I am not permitted to share.”  Severus folded his hands and turned his attention to the Minister.

 

“This is what we’ve been waiting for, Mr Potter.  This is a way to end the war, but you’re not going to like it.”  Kingsley sighed heavily and pushed aside his cup of cold tea.  “In order to destroy it, we need to offer up something in exchange.”

 

Ron braced his elbows on his knees and leant forward.  He didn’t like the sound of that one bit.  He knew Harry would do anything, anything at all to succinctly close the door on the nightmare that was his life, but Ron wasn’t so sure.  His bleary blue eyes flicked between the silent older wizards and he was filled with suspicion.  He wanted to drag Harry into the corridor to properly discuss their stance, but Harry had already leapt from his chair.

 

“What?  Whatever it is, give it to them!”  Harry shouted excitedly.

 

“Harry, maybe we shouldn’t be so rash,”  Ron began.  “If Hermione were here, she’d want to weigh all the pros and cons and probably make a list.  I know we hate it, but she’s always right when it comes to those sorts of things.  When we do things without thinking, it never ends well for us.”

 

Severus adjusted his black robes and he inclined his head in a subtle show of respect.  Ron would have missed it if he hadn’t been staring at his former Professor.  He saw the Minister sigh and the way his eyes were downcast.  Ron knew the price to pay would be hefty, but Harry wasn’t listening.

 

“Ron, this is it.  We’ve a chance now.  We’ve looked for it everywhere and now the location is right at our fingertips.  Hermione would agree with me.  We’ve got to give this person whatever they want.  There is no price too high when it comes to ending Voldemort.”  Harry waved his hands and his excitement would have been contagious if not for the heavy stone lodged in Ron’s stomach.

 

“What is it, Minister?  What does this person want?  It’s got to be something big, otherwise, you would have simply done it without informing us.  We’re hardly involved in larger decisions, not that I’m complaining, but something of this magnitude, I would expect the Wizengamot to be convened, not a meeting with a couple of Aurors.”  Ron spoke quietly, as he had learned over the years a low tone garnered attention whereas his temper made everything worse.  “Can you tell us anything more about this person?  Why have they waited so long?  It’s been three years since the Battle of Hogwarts.  We know V-Voldemort is regrouping, but the Death Eater activity has been quite low.”

 

Harry was minimally impressed with Ron’s level head.  He slammed back into the armchair under protest, as it was obvious he was going to be subjected to some boring lecture.  He didn’t care.  He wanted to leave immediately, locate the diadem, destroy it, and confront Tom Riddle.  It was the only logical conclusion to the War.  Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?  What the hell was the problem?

 

“The decision has already been made, Mr Weasley.  I have taken it upon myself to include you and Mr Potter prior to the implementation as a kindness.  As for the individual, I’m afraid I haven’t more information to give.  I know as much as you.”  Kingsley wiped the corner of his eye and it was only then that Harry’s frustration ebbed.

 

“It’s Hermione, isn’t it?”  asked Ron so softly, Harry was certain he’d heard incorrectly.

 

“Wait,”  Harry shook his head, “we can’t—“

 

“We can, Mr Potter and we will.  She is only one witch and the greater good—“

 

“She’ll never agree!”  Harry leapt from his chair once again and slapped his hands on the espresso desk.

 

“I believe it was you, Mr Potter that declared we should give them whatever they want,”  Severus interjected.  “They want Hermione Granger.”

 

“We can’t tell her the truth,”  Ron swallowed hard and nodded.  He wiped his clammy palms on his beige trousers and pretended he didn’t feel as though his world had been upended.

 

“A Portkey will activate tomorrow to take her to her destination.  We have decided to simply treat it as another mission.  There are further instructions when you are prepared to receive them.”

 

“In what capacity shall she be treated?”  Ron ignored Harry’s questioning frown and focused on Severus.  It seemed the Order Spy was eerily silent and perhaps held more answers than he was willing to share.

 

“A Prisoner of War.”

 

Ron deflated and hastily covered his eyes with his right hand.  He’d heard about Prisoners of War from the whisperings of his parents.  His uncles Fabian and Gideon were supposed to escort their witches to a Prisoner Exchange Point and instead, engaged in battle.  It did not end well for them.  

 

One of the witches had returned while the other remained behind.  There were whisperings of a child conceived, yet it was in poor taste to discuss it, so he was told.  The returning witch was never the same.  She didn’t speak and wound up spending an impressive amount of time in St Mungo’s due to explosive bouts of Uncontrolled Magic.  It was a sad end for them both, really.

 

“The two of you will escort Ms Granger to the rendezvous point.  Mr Potter, just before the Portkey activates, Disarm Ms Granger.  Mr Weasley, press the Portkey into her palm.  You must act quickly.  The Wizarding World’s survival depends upon satisfying the Accords.”

 

“She’ll never forgive us,”  Harry stated forlornly.  He dropped his spectacles on the Minister’s desk and rubbed his eyes angrily.

 

“Perhaps not, but what’s more important?  Forgiveness or the end of Voldemort?”

 

* * *

 

They were usually talkative blokes.  They rambled from one subject to the next in excited tones filled with interruptions.  They’d noisily cheer while they listened to the Wireless and drink entirely too many pints.  They’d link arms and sing off-key as they strode through the streets.  They were best mates.  No, they were family.

 

They were still family, but the silence was deafening.  Despite the cheers around them, they stared at the sticky pub table and drowned their sorrows.  The empty glasses along the wall grew at an alarming rate, but neither was concerned.  They wanted to feel numb.  They needed to feel numb before the sun rose high in the sky and ripped their hearts out.

 

“I wonder if the Accords will be the same,”  Ron finally managed to speak in a choked whisper.

 

“This sort of thing has happened before then?”  Harry sniffed and pretended it was dust in his eye.

 

“Yeah, it was a long time ago, before we were born even.  Usually, there’s a representative though.  I mean if she forgives us, she could choose one of us to visit.”

 

“You make it sound like she’ll be gone ages,”  Harry rolled his eyes and gestured toward the barkeep for another round.

 

“Harry, uhm, it’s usually a year,”  Ron cringed.

 

“She’s going to fucking murder us.  You realise this?  We’re going to trick her, with the Minister’s full backing mind you, and when she comes back?  She’s going to fucking murder us.  The headline of the Daily Prophet will be something like ‘Harry Potter killed by Muggleborn.  Hermione Granger does what Tom Riddle couldn’t’ or some shit.”  Harry considered burying his head in his arms, but he didn’t want the sticky ale against his cheek.

 

“I was going to propose,”  Ron choked on the words and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.  

 

“You still could,”  Harry offered lamely.

 

“How can I now, Harry?”  Ron hung his head and stared at his mate through his bar glass.  “We haven’t the slightest idea who her gaoler is.  He could violate her for his pleasure and she wouldn’t be able to stop him.  Did you know he could shackle her, which would keep her from striking him?  He could force her to carry his child and this is Hermione.  She’d never leave her child.  She’d be lost to me, to us forever.  I don’t know if it’s worth it.”  Ron sniffled forlornly and Harry felt the familiar twinge of guilt.

 

“She would have volunteered, Ron.  This is Hermione.  She would have hated it, but she would have volunteered.  I don’t know why the Minister didn’t include her, not really.  I think you should propose.  It would give her some vestiges of hope to hold onto while she’s gone.”  Harry hissed as the last dregs of his firewhiskey burned down his throat and regretted the decision to shift from pints of pale ale.

 

“Yeah, you’re right.  I know you are.  It’s just,”  Ron heaved a dramatic sigh, “we’ve never even,”  he leant close to Harry, “shagged.”

 

“That’s entirely too much information,”  Harry retorted, but he was barely paying attention.  His thoughts were muddled and cloudy from copious amounts of spirits, not to mention the fact he and Ron had to send Hermione off in the morning.  Of course, the sexy blonde witch at the counter didn’t help his clarity of thought one bit, but he was certain Ron would understand.

 

“Harry, what’s it like?”  Ron asked quietly.

 

“Shagging?”  Harry jerked his attention from the blonde and frowned.  “Well, it’s sort of wonderful really.  Wait, you and Hermione haven’t—?”

 

“No.  I’ve thought about it, but she’s been really busy and I’ve been busy and I wanted it to be more than some quick sort of thing before we fell into exhaustion.  It sounds a bit pathetic now that I’m saying it out loud and all.”  Ron blushed and waved at Seamus and Dean.

 

“Ron, are you saying you’ve never?  I thought for sure you and Lavender—“  Harry snorted and waved in his hand airily.

 

“Almost.  It’s really embarrassing alright?”  Ron leant closer and his ears were tipped red with mortification.  “She was completely starkers and I’d never seen a woman all uhm, well—“

 

“Naked,”  Harry supplied nonchalantly.

 

“Yes, that.  Her breasts were the biggest I’d ever seen and they were right there in my face.  She sort of tore off my trousers and I just stood there.  She pushed me into a chair and straddled my lap, Harry.  She was naked and sitting on my lap.  She pushed my head into her breasts and took my hand and stuck it between her legs and it was all wet, but fuck, it felt good.  She took my cock in her hands and I watched it disappear and everything was hot and wet and tight and that was it.”  Ron drew a shaky breath and gulped his pint.  “She was obviously disappointed, but then she showed me how to touch her and she made the loudest noises I’ve ever heard.  I’m sort of afraid to try again.”

 

“I’m sorry I asked,”  Harry groaned.

 

“Oh come on, Harry.  You’ve got to tell me now.  Fair is fair.  Wait, it wasn’t with my sister, was it?  If it was, I don’t want to hear about it.”  Ron shuddered and clutched his pint with both hands.

 

“Fine, alright,”  Harry licked his lips.  “It was Luna Lovegood.  She just sort of pushed me into an empty classroom.  I was confused and a little afraid of her.  She locked the door and unbuckled my trousers.  I kept asking her what she was doing and she just kept shushing me.  She reached her hand in and I nearly finished right there.  The only hand I’d ever had on my cock was my own, right?  She told me she’d been dreaming about it and I didn’t know what to say.  She dropped her clothes on the floor and pushed mine off and I just bloody stood there.  Luna’s really pretty and her tits were just staring at me so I touched them.  She sunk to her knees before I could really do anything and fuck, Luna can suck a cock, alright?  I don’t think it was half a minute later and I was finished.  I felt awful about it, but she laughed, which didn’t make things better.”

 

“I don’t know if that’s wonderful or awful, mate.”  Ron hung on every word with his mouth gaped open in awe.

 

“Oh, I’m not finished.  Let’s just say Lovegood taught me my way around a woman.  She was the first woman I ever tasted—“

 

“Tasted?  What?”  Ron frowned deeply and Harry laughed.

 

“She uhm taught me how to return the favour, mate.  Apparently, girls like it when you uhm, kiss them there.  It didn’t take long for her to make these delicious little noises and by then my cock was ready to go again.  She pushed me over and sat on it so fast, I sort of felt assaulted, but then I realised I didn’t care.  I was having sex with a woman and it was the best feeling in the world.”  Harry leant back and sighed happily at the memory.

 

“Better than riding a broom?”  Ron asked with obvious scepticism.

 

“I rode a broom and your sister at the same time, so I can’t really answer that for you.”

 

“Dammit, Harry!”

 

* * *

 

 

Harry and Ron arrived at Hermione’s flat exactly on time, which should have been her first clue that something was amiss.  Her boys were always late.  She flung open the front door and embraced them just the way she always did.  She didn’t notice that they held her just a little longer or that Ron lingered when he kissed her cheek.

 

Harry wandered her flat without making a quip about coffee, which she found odd, but Ron was eagerly asking after breakfast, which alleviated all her concerns.  She twisted her curls into a knot at the base of her neck and pointed to the brown sacks on the small dining table.

 

“Have you got everything you need?”  

 

Harry accepted a brown sack and avoided her eyes.  He’d always been a terrible liar as far as Hermione was concerned and he couldn’t risk it.  He inspected the menagerie of Magical and Muggle photographs that filled nearly every surface and he almost suggested she pack a few.

 

Her books lined the shelves not only alphabetically but also according to subject and he smiled.  He’d miss the little things as far as Hermione was concerned.  He’d miss the way she’d get after him to file his reports on time.  He’d miss the way she always dragged him to some new Muggle bistro so he could keep in touch with his roots.  He’d miss the way she lectured him on his dating habits and sternly remind him that Ginny wasn’t going to wait forever; it was time to grow up and stop sowing his wild oats before his favourite appendage fell off.

 

There was a raging sea within him and it was his duty to keep it from spilling forth.  He could taste the desperation on his tongue and physically ached to tell her the truth.  He reminded himself of the greater good.  It was worth it, for the sake of the Wizarding World, is what he told himself.  Harry only hoped those words would continue to ring true once Hermione Granger returned home.

 

“It’s a bit like old times, isn’t it?”  Hermione chattered excitedly and slipped her familiar beaded bag over her head.

 

“Can’t bring that this time, Hermione.”  Harry sadly caught the strap and made sure it didn’t catch her hair as he pulled it off.  “New Auror Regulations state that only Ministry approved items may be brought on any missions.  I’ve pushed through the paperwork for your nifty little bag, but it hasn’t been approved yet.”  The lie rolled off his tongue and Ron nodded solemnly in solidarity.

 

“What?”  Hermione stretched forward to snag her bag and Harry easily evaded her.  “I can’t be expected to go on mission without my research materials.  This is ridiculous.  I’m going to Floo Call Kingsley and inform him—“

 

“He’s meeting with the Italian Minister today.  You worry too much, Hermione.  It’s a fairly straightforward mission.  The reconnaissance team has reported Greyback’s location.  It hasn’t changed in seventy-two hours.  We’re barely even necessary at this point.  The Point Team has been in position since last night and we’re bringing up the rear.  Shouldn’t take more than a few hours and that bastard will be back where he belongs.”  Ron grinned happily and pulled Hermione into a tight embrace.

 

“I’m actually impressed that you retained all of that.”  Hermione shrugged into her sensible black overcoat and slipped on her black boots.  She gripped her wand in her fist and offered her arms to her boys.  “Shall we?”

 

Ron and Harry shared a pained look over Hermione’s head and nodded.  They allowed Hermione to Side-Along-Apparate them to the Caledonian Forest.  It was a long way from home, which is exactly why it was chosen, at least that’s what Harry believed.

 

“We’ve landed just above Allt Ruadh,”  Hermione wheezed as she regained her bearings.

 

“Luna would love it here.  She showed me this book about all the rare wildlife.  She’s always wanted to go—“  Harry gulped and suddenly found the scuff on his shoes incredibly interesting.

 

“You said you were done with that, Harry.  You said you were going to make a proper go of it with Ginny.  I was really looking forward to being family!”  Hermione growled.  How she managed to sound so angry and insecure at the same time was anyone’s guess, but she managed it.  “Sorry Ron, I didn’t mean to assume.  I suppose I always believed it would be us at the end of the day.”

 

Ron’s brilliant beam was exactly what she needed.  She yanked on the lapel of his Auror trench and smashed her lips against his.  She ignored Harry’s strangled gag and concentrated on the feel of slightly chapped lips beneath hers.

 

“I love you,”  she breathed.  Her eyes fluttered shut and she rested her head against Ron’s burly chest for a moment.

 

“Expelliarmus!”  Harry cried and triumphantly caught Hermione’s wand.

 

“Harry?  What are you doing?  That’s not funny.  Give it back!  We’re on mission.”

 

“Sorry, Mione,”  Ron kissed her temple and pressed a silver comb into her hand with a sad smile.

 

“What is this?  What’s going on?”  Hermione inspected the diamond-encrusted ornate comb and scowled angrily until it warmed her palm.  “No!  No!  What have you done?!”  Hermione cried, but the words were lost in the swirl of wind and spinning sensation that took hold within and she was gone.


	3. The Cottage

The Cottage

* * *

 

Hermione Granger landed hard.  The air was forced from her lungs and her face scraped across the unforgiving ground.  She coughed and dry heaved until her eyes watered. She shoved the offending comb into her pocket and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her overcoat.

 

She could smell the salt in the air and gingerly got to her feet.  She swayed slightly as she realised she was entirely too close to the edge of a dangerous looking cliff.  The jagged rocks combined with the crashing waves would be the end of her if she toppled off.

 

She turned from the sight of impending death and supposed she was meant to venture to the cottage.  It looked larger than her flat, but it wasn’t opulent by any means. She felt the familiar hum of magic wash over her the moment she stepped through the threshold and turned to leave.  The magicks denied her retreat.

 

The windowless oak door slammed shut behind her.  A prickle of fear crept up the back of her neck, yet she pressed forward.  The furnishings were obviously well made and some thought had gone into them.  The polished wood shone brightly in the firelight and settee looked inviting with its plump cushions.

 

The fireplace crackled noisily and she knew it was not connected to the Floo Network.  The heavy brocade draperies were drawn which cast the great room into shadow. It was cosy, but it wasn’t home.

 

She walked down the short corridor and discovered a bedroom with an attached lavatory, which she vowed to thoroughly investigate later.  She also stumbled upon a small library, galley kitchen, and small eating area with an extraordinarily large wood table pressed against the wall.  It was the parchment propped against a crystal vase that drew her attention.

 

She cautiously approached the table and realised her name was ornately written on the envelope.  Her fingers trembled and she removed the slip of parchment. Her heart fought to escape her chest as the words danced on the page.

 

_ “Greetings!  Welcome to your new home.  You are a Prisoner of War and as such shall be treated according to the Guidelines of the Accords of War.  You will be gifted twelve hours to acclimate to your surroundings before your Designated Gailer pays a visit.  A house elf will see to your basic needs as necessary.” _

 

“Prisoner of War?  Prisoner of War,” Hermione paced the length of the eating area and mumbled the words until they made sense.  “What have they done?”

 

She shed her cloak and hung it carefully on the hook near the door.  She definitely wasn’t the sort of woman to simply accept the situation when there were so many questions to be answered.  Hermione rolled up the sleeves of her navy blue button down and kicked off her boots near the bench by the front door.

 

Hours had passed and she had uncovered absolutely nothing.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but it was nothing useful, in her eyes.  Hermione had discovered the quaint library held hundreds of books, but they were elementary at best.  The small utility room off the kitchen led to the back garden, which she decided to explore another day.

 

She hadn't found a single piece of parchment, a quill, or an inkpot in all her endeavours.  She imagined sending an owl would be utterly impossible, which made her groan with frustration.  She simply wished for more information about her circumstances. It wasn't too much to ask, was it?

 

A loud bang interrupted her angry mental tirade and she cautiously entered the great room.  A small, bulbous-eyed house elf stood at stiff attention and held out quite the tome of parchment.  Hermione cleared her throat and the house elf actually glowered at her.

 

“Master says you is to read it.  I is to waits until you gets clean.  Master says he comes later.” The elf slapped the papers onto the low-lying coffee table and pretended the filthy witch didn’t exist.  He didn’t care for dirt and the girl was covered in it.

 

“Prisoner of War Accords,”  Hermione whispered and perused the top sheet.

 

She thumbed through it quickly and was astonished by the number of pages.  It was impressively organised and even broken down into chapters. She snatched the first chapter and decided it was probably best to bathe.

 

Hermione turned the taps of the inordinately large bathing tub and inspected the glass bottles that lined the ledge.  She wasn’t familiar with the various types of cleansers and hair Potions. She sniffed them individually and decided on a lovely concoction of rosemary and lemons.

 

The towels in the cupboard were fresh, clean, and fluffy.  She’d always been fond of white towels. It was the epitome of clean.  The bathroom walls were splashed with a sunny yellow and it wasn’t long before she was sat in the tub surrounded by bubbles.

 

A black bar of obviously magical soap seemed to edge closer as she bathed.  Hermione wrinkled her nose at it, displeased with its insistence as it bumped against her elbow, but scrubbed her limbs just the same.  It tingled everywhere she lathered the grey bubbles. She wiped the suds off her legs and discovered they were completely bereft of hair.  She groaned under her breath and hurled the bar of soap across the room.

 

“Hair Removal Soap, bastard.”

 

Hermione snarled when she realised she'd left the Accords on the bed. She’d laid them there in her haste to undress for her bath and forgotten them. Her plans to scour them while bathing was for nought.  She did so hate to be forgetful even under such trying circumstances.

 

She quickly towelled dry and shivered in the chill in the air.  She glanced around curiously and wondered where her clothes had gone before she remembered the pesky house elf.

 

Rather than engaging the unpleasant fellow, Hermione opened the bureau.  Perhaps her captors had decided to bestow clothing upon her. She rifled through the drawers and discovered scraps of sheer lace knickers with matching brassieres that were exactly her size.  Hermione nearly screamed when the nighties were much the same.

 

“This is ridiculous!  I can’t wear any of this!”

 

The disgruntled house elf snorted and pointed to the wardrobe nestled in the corner.  Hermione stomped toward it, while she held her towel firmly in place and pulled on the doors.  The blouses were pretty to be certain, but the skirts had scandalous slits that would bare nearly all of her thighs with every step.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me!  I am not wearing any of this! Where are my clothes!  Give them back!”

 

“Master says you wears it or youse be naked.  Matters not to him.” The elf huffed and left Hermione to her own devices.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco Malfoy sat before his Charmed mirror and held his breath.  She was there. She was really there and she was also very, very angry.  He didn’t mind when she was angry. She was a sight to behold when her cheeks were flushed and her hair fell down her back in ringlets.

 

He bit his knuckles when she finally dropped the towel.  His breaths quickened when she bent over and stepped into white lace knickers.  She looked absolutely divine in the lingerie he had chosen and he couldn’t wait to claim her.

 

“Draco?”  Severus cautiously entered the darkened bedchamber.  “Are you, oh there you are. Is that Ms Granger?”

 

“What do you want, Severus?  I’m busy.” 

 

Draco’s eyes never left the mirror and Severus was understandably uncomfortable.  Part of him had hoped Draco’s obsession with the Muggleborn would ease over time, but it seemed to have become worse.  He knew he was sworn to secrecy, yet he couldn’t help but worry for the girl.

 

“I thought perhaps we might discuss your plans.”

 

“Plans?”  Draco asked distractedly.  “In approximately four hours I plan to Apparate to the Cottage in Tintagel.”

 

“Yes, I assumed as much, however, Draco it might behove you to tread  _ delicately _ .”  Severus slowly paced the length of the room and gazed down into the gardens.

 

“What do you mean?”  Draco finally tore his eyes from the mirror when Hermione settled on the bed to sift through the Accords he’d sent her.

 

“She’s just been torn from her life, Draco.  She’s only just discovered she’s been used as a pawn and is now a Prisoner of War.  Perhaps, it would be best to allow her to settle before—“

 

“No!  I’ve done my waiting!”  Draco upended his chair and the veins in his throat throbbed with the force of his anger.

 

“Alright!”  Severus raised his hands and spoke in soothing tones.  It wasn’t the time for another of Draco’s tirades. “It was merely a suggestion.  Kindness goes a long way, Draco.”

 

Draco calmed significantly and nodded.  He supposed his Godfather had a point. It wouldn’t do to simply rush in there with his demands.  It would require a little finesse. He could do that. He could do anything for her.

 

“She was rather receptive at the bookshop.  She didn’t mind terribly much when I embraced her,”  he mused. “Have you received correspondence from the Minister yet?  Have they decided on a proper Representative for my witch?”

 

“They have made their decision,”  Severus Snape’s upper lip twitched in derision.  “Ronald Weasley has volunteered. You can’t pretend you’re surprised.”

 

“Oh, I’m not,”  Draco laughed. “That’s actually perfect.  They submitted his hair for analysis as well as to appease the wards, yes?”

 

“Of course they did.  They are nothing if not thorough.”

 

Draco smiled and Severus didn’t like it one bit.  He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and cursed his involvement.  If it hadn’t been for his promise to Narcissa, Severus knew he would have left the Malfoy heir to his own devices years ago.  His sense of obligation was going to lead him to an early grave and Severus was not completely sure he would object.

 

“Wonderful!”  Draco clapped loudly.  “I’ll expect the first phial by the end of the week.”

 

A handful of hours later, he strode through the Manor with the air of authority.  He didn’t venture out often, but for her, he would make an exception. He hummed happily and ran his fingers through his hair.  He could hear his father’s shouts from the depths of the dungeon and chuckled. He reminded himself to tell the elves to strength the Silencing Charms.  He did so hate interruption.

 

Draco decided against formal robes and straightened his navy blazer.  His charcoal grey slacks set off the colour of his eyes, at least that’s what his mother had always said, but he didn’t want to think about her.  He couldn’t think about her. It would ruin everything and he had worked too hard.

 

His fingers shook as he held his wand and he refused to entertain the idea of bloodstains on his fingers.  They were clean. He had scrubbed them clean. Everything was fine. He closed his eyes and envisioned the sprawling greenery of the garden in Tintagel.

 

Draco burst through the back door of his cottage and inhaled deeply.  He picked up the lingering scent of herbs and citrus and smiled. He tucked his wand into the inner pocket of his blazer and made his way to the sitting room.

 

“Granger,”  Draco sneered the moment he laid eyes on her.  “Should have known they’d send you. Tragic error on their part if you ask me.”

 

“Malfoy?”  Hermione brushed her toffee curls off her face and craned her neck to see the visitor.  “It is you. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. No one’s seen you in ages, but I didn’t think you’d be working for the opposing side.”

 

Hermione shuffled the papers before her and scooted over on the sofa, almost as though she was making room for him.  It was strange to see him again when their last encounter had been awkward and ended violently. She was terribly embarrassed by her ensemble, but he didn’t seem to mind.

 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.  It’s a favour for a friend.” Draco approached her slowly and sat in the armchair nearest the door.

 

This was easy.  He could do this.  He could sit across from her and watch her milky cleavage rise and fall with each breath.  He could allow his gaze to linger on her muscular thighs and wonder what they’d look like wrapped around him.  He could refrain from touching her inappropriately, this time.

 

“Can you tell me anything?”  

 

Hermione sat ramrod straight on the sofa and folded her petite hands in her lap.  She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She wished she could hide her exposed skin from his hungry eyes, but the other choices were much, much worse.  She fervently hoped if she remained professional, Malfoy would do the same.

 

“I could tell you many things, Granger.”  Draco crossed his right ankle over his left knee and dropped his wand into his lap after he removed his blazer.  “Your right breast is slightly larger than the left and your nipples are hard.”

 

“I meant about the Accords,”  Hermione muttered.

 

“You’d really prefer I deprive you of your reading material?  My, Granger, you’ve changed.” He winked and she didn’t know what to make of it.

 

He was different, but he was also the same.  It was difficult for her to make sense of it and Hermione always wanted to make sense of everything.  His tone was teasing while his words were biting. His lips sneered, but his eyes dallied. It was terribly confusing.

 

“I haven’t had much time to look over it and there are a few passages I find confusing.”  Hermione naturally pointed to the section, but he hadn’t moved.

 

Draco refused to surrender.  Perhaps it could have been an intricate game of chess, but she wasn’t aware they were playing anything at all.  If he were to move to her, he would be showing weakness and that would never do. No, it was much better to simply pat the arm of his chair and wait.

 

Hermione struggled internally and recognised the signs of a power play.  On the one hand, she was used to Harry and Ron wedged beside her while she explained whatever they were researching.  On the other hand, she couldn’t expect the same of Draco Malfoy. She had to tread carefully as there were unspoken rules.  She didn’t want to break them and suffer some unknown consequences.

 

She gathered a few pages to her chest and stood slowly.  Every fibre of her being told her to run, but she was a brilliant woman.  She knew it was folly to attempt to escape. It could quite possibly ruin everything the Order had worked for and she couldn't have that.  She couldn't be the reason they failed. She would do anything to ensure Tom Riddle was truly vanquished.

 

Her bare feet were soundless as she walked around the coffee table.  The striped throw rug was soft against her toes, which she liked. She kept her eyes on his and finally came to rest near the deep blue armchair.  He arched a pale brow and patted the arm again.

 

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”  Draco teased the moment she sat entirely too close to him.

 

His arm quickly snaked around her and yanked her into his lap.  She yelped and remained absolutely still. His fingers slid across the bare skin of her abdomen as her fingers curled into fists.  His chin sat on her shoulder and he adjusted them until both his arms were tightly wrapped around her waist.

 

“I suppose you’re going to tell me this sort of treatment is specified in the Accords?”  Hermione spat through clenched teeth as she attempted to maintain a haughty sort of composure, but she failed.

 

“Many things are specified,”  Draco mumbled against the back of her neck.  “For instance, it’s my job to ensure you’ve utilised the special bathing soap.”

 

“It’s obvious I have, I mean you can see my legs and—“

 

“Uh uh uh, Granger.  Come on now, you know better.”  Draco licked the side of her throat to her earlobe and paused.

 

His right hand dragged along her waist and he knew she watched his every movement.  Hermione tried to cover her thighs with the flimsy skirt, but it was a futile effort.  Instead, Draco’s left arm crossed her body and pinned her against him by her shoulder.

 

She squirmed when she felt his warm hand push away the fabric of the green skirt.  His hand rose higher and higher until she whimpered. The large hand cupped her sex and she instinctively tried to push it away.

 

“Please, don’t.”

 

“Your nipples are hard, Granger.  Sit still and be a good girl for a moment.  It’ll be over before you know it.”

 

“You’re not going to—“  Hermione’s tongue felt thick and she couldn’t force her lips to form the words.

 

“Not today,”  Draco sighed with a light groan against her cheek.

 

Hermione vowed to stare at the ceiling.  The deep, dark beams were not remotely interesting, but it was easier than watching Draco Malfoy touch her.  She bit her cheek, completely resolved not to utter a sound, especially when the weight of his left hand shifted from her shoulder to her right breast.

 

“It’s inevitable then, is that what you’re saying?”  Hermione choked on her words due to the insistent fingers that sidled into her knickers.

 

“What a good girl you’ve been, Granger.”  Draco suckled her neck and carefully investigated the smooth skin in her knickers.  “You’ve done well.”

 

“Will that save me from further assault?”  Hermione growled.

 

Draco concentrated on marking her skin and removing his hand from her knickers.  He had simply wished to establish control and he believed he had succeeded. He knew she wouldn’t succumb easily and part of him was quite titillated by the idea of a fight.

 

“I’ll have you, Granger, make no mistake in that.  However, I shall not breach the Accords by taking you now.  You are entitled to a Representative to address your needs and concerns.  The visit has been scheduled for tomorrow. Do not inquire as to whom as I haven’t the slightest idea.  I’d wager it was Potter or your bumbling boyfriend.” Draco shrugged, the lie easily falling from his lips, and held her tightly to revel in her warmth.

 

“What if the Prisoner of War is carnally innocent?”  Hermione stiffly asked through clenched teeth.

 

“Are you saying you’re a virgin, Granger?”  Draco felt himself harden beneath her and based on her loss of pallor, he knew she could feel it.  “If the Prisoner of War arrives to the Holding Location a virgin, it is considered the utmost gift to the Designated Gailer.  If the Prisoner of War has relations with her Representative prior to offering her gift to her Gailer, the Representative’s life is forfeit.”

 

Hermione leaned forward and pushed away from his warmth.  She nearly stumbled, as she was prepared to struggle, and he had simply released her.  She angrily wiped her eyes and spun on him, furiously angry.

 

“I wasn’t implying anything, Malfoy!”  She backed away from him and struck the coffee table in her haste.

 

“The Representative will be furnished a short form of sorts, which his or her magic will answer in truth.  The Holding Location determined your status the moment you stepped inside, Granger.” Draco stood and shrugged into his blazer.  “Make no mistake. If you fuck Weasley, I’ll kill him myself.”

 

He didn’t look at her again.  Instead, his calculating eyes flicked toward the ornate mirror over the fireplace.  He decided to have Benedict affix another to the large bare wall in the bedroom, just to err on the side of caution.

 

As for Hermione, she was caught between the desire to tear out her hair and pummel Malfoy with her fists.  She might have been small, but she knew she could land a few blows before she was restrained. It was the idea of  _ being _ restrained that gave her pause.

 

“You bastard,”  she spat.

 

“I’m the bastard?!”  Draco growled dangerously and she had enough sense to retreat.  “I didn’t offer you up for the slaughter, Granger. A missive was sent with an offer of exchange.  Your bloody friend, Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt suggested  _ you _ .”

 

Draco snatched his wand off the floor and stalked toward the front door.  It was a subtle dig as Hermione wouldn't be able to follow him as she hurled epithets at his parentage.  He lingered on the portico and nearly looked back.

 

“What choice did they have?!”  Hermione shrieked. Her hair bounced as she ran after him and he listened to her scream when the magicks prevented her escape.

 

“There’s always a choice, Granger.  Did you actually believe the first offer was accepted?  Like any good barter, compromises were made and  _ you _ were  _ theirs _ .  Think about that.  I’ll see you soon, love.”

 

Draco Disapparated to the muffled sound of Hermione Granger’s soul-shattering wail.  It made him tingle from head to toe, in a good way, of course. He whistled a nameless tune and wondered if it would rain before he reached the Manor. 

 

He probably should have visited his father, but gods, the man was completely draining.  He was filled with all sorts of demands and Draco didn’t wish to listen to him.  _ Let me out of here, Draco.  You’re going to pay for this, Draco.  I wish you were never born, Draco. _  It was tedious at best.  One would think after nearly a year of incarceration within in his own home, Lucius Malfoy could manage the slightest hint of wit in his rants.

 

“Draco, your father—“

 

“I’m aware, Severus.  I suppose I must pay him a visit.  Tell Benedict I’ll take my evening meal in my bedchamber.  I’m feeling very...” Draco paused, “white wine this evening as well.”

 

“Would you like me to accompany you?”  Severus Snape’s stoic features never changed, but Draco could sense the man’s distaste.

 

“You don’t have to stay, you know that right?  You’ve got your own home and I know it must be ridiculously dull without me, but you don’t have to stay.”

 

Severus strolled beside his Godson until they reached the heavy door that led to the dungeons.  Once Draco reached for the door handles, Severus covered Draco’s pale hand with his own. Words were not passed between them, the meaning was clear.  Draco nodded curtly and waited until the dark-haired wizard disappeared around the bend.

 

He appreciated his Godfather’s presence.  He doubted he would have recovered from his first fit without the man.  Hell, he doubted he’d be able to properly function without the man, but he also didn’t want Severus to stay out of obligation.

 

“Draco!  Please!”

 

His father’s pathetic cries didn’t tug at his heartstrings.  They hadn’t for quite some time and it was better that way. Lucius Malfoy had been a vicious and cruel man, but it wasn’t altogether intentional.  Draco freely admitted his father had honestly believed he was making the best decisions for his family. It was a bit of a shame the man was wrong, but that wasn’t Draco’s issue.

 

“Did my mother say please?”  Draco called quietly.

 

“D-Draco, you’re here.  P-Please, I can’t.” Lucius Malfoy weeping would have probably softened someone else’s heart, but not his son’s.

 

“Did my mother beg and plead as you’re doing?  Did she?” Draco lazily sauntered into the Malfoy dungeons and tapped his wand against the bars of his father’s cell.  

 

“You can’t, you can’t do this to me.  I’m your father.”

 

Lucius hadn’t the strength to stand.  He hadn’t in some days, but he no longer kept track.  It was easier in the beginning. He was outraged and filled with venom, but now, he was simply a broken, broken man that longed for freedom.

 

"I had a father once,"  Draco mused. "Everyone believed my father to be a bit of a bastard, and he was, but never to me.  He was cold, to be sure, but that's merely the Pureblood way, isn't it? Affection was weakness and I was taught to be strong, wasn't I?  He reprimanded me in public, but behind closed doors, he explained why he said the things he did and acted the way he did. I pretended to understand and eventually, I attempted to emulate him and what did that get me?  Can you tell me that, Lucius?"

 

“I-I tried.  I did my best.  I was wrong. I’ve paid my dues, Draco.  I went to Azkaban for my involvements, for my crimes.  I buried your mother—“

 

“DO NOT SPEAK OF HER!”

 

Lucius nodded shakily and covered his matted blond hair with grimy hands.  He knew better. He knew better than to mention Narcissa. It was an accident.  He hadn’t meant to anger Draco. He would be punished. He knew he would be punished and he knew he deserved it, but where was the end?  

 

“I-I’m sorry.  I know better,”  Lucius sniffled and choked, yet Draco was utterly unmoved.  “Kill me. That’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s alright. You’ve won.”

 

Draco tossed his head back and laughed.  It was harsh, barked laughter and it stung his father’s ears.  Lucius warily watched his only child squat beside him, only the bars between them.

 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you Lucius?"  Draco stretched his fingers between the bars and gently patted his father's grimy head.  "That would make you happy, wouldn't it? Perhaps you have visions of joining my mother in the afterlife as well.  Is that your dream? I have dreams as well, did you know that?"

 

Lucius was afraid to breathe.  His son was known for his violent outbursts and he wasn’t sure his emaciated body could take the brunt of a fit.  His fingernails were torn and broken, as was his will to live. His clothes were barely more than tatters and the sustenance he was given wasn’t nearly enough.  It kept him alive and nothing more.

 

"No, I don't suppose you did know that.  How could you? You never asked. I aim to please my mother.  I miss her, sometimes." Draco sat in the dirt and leant his forehead against the cool bars.  "She loved me and she wasn't afraid to tell me. I'll never forgive you, Lucius. You're already aware of that little fact, aren't you?  It's your fault she's dead. It's your fault I killed her." Draco wiped his nose with the sleeve of his blazer and stared into the darkness.

 

“I know, son.  I know.”

 

“I didn’t want to kill her,”  Draco chattered over the sound of his father’s sobs.  “I didn’t have a choice. With all the time the Death Eaters spent teaching us how to wield the magic, they never taught us how to fight it off.  I’m sure there was some sort of convoluted reasonings there, but it doesn’t matter now. The Imperius is quite horrible. I watched myself do horrible things and I was utterly powerless to stop it.”  Draco looked at the pale imitation of his father and sighed. “It should have been you.”

 

“Here I am, Draco,”  Lucius coughed. “Make it so.”

 

“Father, why on earth would I want to do anything to please you now?  I have you exactly where I want you. I want you to suffer as I have suffered, as she did suffer.  I want you to slip into madness. I want your last coherent memory to be her blood dripping from your son’s fingers.  I want your eventual death to be slow and painful. I want to watch you wither away into nothing. I want your last breath to be a silent scream.”

 

Draco gradually stood and made his way to the stairs that led to warm baths and decadent chocolates.  He hated visiting Lucius. He really should consider ending the man. It wasn’t as though he needed his father, he didn’t.  The moment Lucius was sentenced to Azkaban the Malfoy fortunes were passed to Draco. It truly was a pity the man had ever been released, but Draco had rectified that quite easily.

 

“I loved her too!”  Lucius rasped. “She was my life!  I would have died for her! I should have died for her!  It should have been me! I would have done anything to trade places with her!  I know you will never forgive me and you shouldn’t! I will never forgive myself!”

 

“Good, that’s good, Lucius.”  Draco paused and looked at the pale, pathetic man that once resembled his hero.  “Beg.”

 

“Kill me.  Kill me. Please, kill me.  I deserve it,” Lucius squeezed the bars and hoisted his skeletal form to his feet.  He pressed his face against the bars and stretched his bony crooked fingers toward his son.  “Do it, Draco. Do it and you can be free of me, forever. I beg of you.”

 

“So be it,”  Draco nodded slowly.  The serene relief in his father’s eyes would be etched in his memory for always.  “Avada Kedavra.”

 

He turned and hurried up the steps.  He didn’t look at his father again. There was no reason to gaze at another dead family member.  He’d seen enough of the dead. As he stumbled through the door at the top of the stairs, Draco paused.  His head thumped against the wood grains and he groaned in a combination of agony and relief.

 

“Happy Birthday, Father.”

  
  



	4. The Representative

 

* * *

 

“We’ve decided.”

 

Harry scowled at the witches sat across from him and crossed his arms.  He didn’t want another fucking lecture. He wanted a shag. At this point, he didn’t care which one decided she was up to the task.  He’d take either, or both of them together if they liked that sort of thing. He gathered from their serious expressions that was certainly not an option, but the idea still lingered.

 

“I don’t see what the problem is.”  Harry rolled his eyes.

 

“Of course, you don’t.  You’re Harry Potter,” Ginny Weasley slammed her back against the settee and clamped her lips closed.

 

“What does my name have to do with anything?”  Harry asked pointedly.

 

“You think your ruddy name can get you whatever you want!  You honestly believe there’s nothing wrong with flitting between us.  Maybe we deserve better than that, Harry. Maybe we want more than that,”  Ginny hissed.

 

“I don’t,”  Luna sighed dreamily.  “I’m perfectly happy with our arrangement.”

 

“Luna, we decided!”  Ginny jabbed her bony elbow into Luna’s side and Harry smiled.

 

It seemed it was Ginny with the issue and he could handle that.  He’d been handling her temper for years, which was most of the reason he wasn’t willing to commit to her.  She was a nice girl, he supposed. She looked at him as if he hung the moon and what bloke wouldn’t like that?  

 

Her temper, however, was another issue entirely.  Ginny had a violent streak of jealousy and it was quite bothersome.  As much as Harry had matured, he was still young. He didn’t want to be tied down to any witch, not yet.  He wanted a tasting of the world’s offerings, but apparently, such actions were frowned upon.

 

“I told you, Ginny.  I know you want the whole family life and it’s a nice idea.  I’m not ready and if you keep pushing me—“

 

“Are you threatening me?”  Ginny stood and her dark red hair swung across her mediocre breasts.

 

“Take it as you like,”  Harry sighed. “I’m not going to allow you to tie me down, not yet, maybe not ever.  I like my life, Gin. I’m done with school and I love my job. I really don’t need anything more than that.  I enjoy a good shag, as well. If you’re looking for more than that, well, you might want to look somewhere else.”  

 

Harry propped his feet on the coffee table and relaxed.  He knew the phases of her temper quite well. Where Ron had mellowed, Ginny hadn’t.  First, her cheeks blossomed with a rosy hue that clashed with her hair. Then, her lips would part and her small chest would heave while her eyes wandered over the room.  Next, her fists would clench and then finally, she’d shout at him.

 

“Are you saying never?”  Ginny growled.

 

“I’m saying not now.  I don’t know if the time will ever come and if that’s your only focus, well, it’s been nice Gin.  I wish you all the luck.” Harry smirked as he heard the Floo roar to life in his travel room. He hoped Ginny would get a move on, he had plans, and they didn’t include her.

 

“I hate you, Harry Potter.  I hate you!” Ginny Weasley ran from Grimmauld Place and the front door shook with the force of her slam.

 

“That wasn’t very nice, Harry,”  Luna Lovegood swayed across the great room and plunked onto his lap.

 

“It was true.  You told me to be honest with her,”  Harry smiled and leant forward to nip her ear.

 

“Have you two started without me, again?”  The raven-haired witch glowered with her hands on her hips, but there was mischief in her eyes.

 

Harry laughed and snaked his hand into Luna’s knickers.  He eyed the beauty near the door and licked his lips. He knew she loved that.  He winked when her tight white blouse showcased her hardened nipples and he continued to furiously finger Luna.

 

“Just letting off a bit of stress,”  Luna moaned and rocked her hips. She came with a tiny squeak and vacated her position.  “I haven’t time to play today. I’m to meet Rolf. It’s likely our excursions will take us out of country.  I’m quite thrilled, really. I’m ridiculously fond of Rolf.” Luna adjusted her knickers and fluffed her rainbow skirt.

 

“W-what are you saying?”  Harry gulped nervously and the other witch hurried to his side.

 

“I’m not going to play with you anymore.  It wouldn’t be fair to Rolf and he’s trying so hard to win my affections.  I dare say I might let him.” Luna offered a brilliant smile and who could be angry with her after that?  “He’s all yours, Pansy.”

 

“Wait, what?  I don’t—I don’t play with cock!”  Pansy Parkinson flinched at the thought and had half a mind to chase down the blonde woman.  “S-she’s gone, Potter. What the fuck am I supposed to do now?”

 

Harry blinked a few times to refocus after the whirlwind of rainbows vacated his home.  How could she do this to him? Luna was his favourite shag! He’d sort of liked the way Pansy would simply watch them and sigh.  It was ridiculously arousing, but everything was suddenly different and he wasn’t quite sure what to do about it.

 

His cock throbbed in his trousers and something needed to be done about it.  Rather than lament his losses, Harry grabbed Pansy’s hand and led her up the steep stairs to his bedchamber.  She huffed and groaned a bit, but that was simply Pansy.

 

“I finally get to see you naked,”  Harry chuckled and slammed the witch against the door.

 

He didn’t bother with her buttons and resorted to tearing her blouse open.  Pansy gasped and watched her pearl buttons bounced across the hardwood. She blinked and her short skirt sunk to the floor, leaving her in nothing more than her knickers and sinfully high black boots.

 

“I’ve always shagged girls, Potter,”  Pansy stood stiffly while Harry eyed her.

 

“Why?”  Harry was genuinely curious as to the answer and pressed against her.

 

“It’s less complicated,”  Pansy replied honestly. “I get mine and they go home to their boyfriends and their husbands.  I never have to worry about getting pregnant or getting married or any sense of commitment.”

 

Pansy stared at the ceiling and realised she was reclined upon Harry’s four-poster.  His hands were on her breasts. Her knees were spread and he was wedged between them.  She arched into his touch and moaned like a wanton whore, really. She’d always been loud and based on the hardness that bumped against her crux, Harry enjoyed it.

 

“You always watched me, don’t think I didn’t notice.”  Harry tore off his cotton shirt and kissed her lightly.  “You actually like men, but you’re afraid, aren’t you?”

 

“You’re surprisingly astute for a Gryffindor,”  Pansy whispered. “All these years and no one else has ever noticed.”

 

“You always gripped my hand when you came.  It didn’t matter if it was Luna bringing you pleasure or by the grace of your own hand.  You’d stare at me until you reached that delicious edge and squeeze my hand as you toppled over.”  Harry reclined on his side and watched the rise and fall of Pansy’s delectable chest. “I’ve wanted to sample you for ages.  Do you want me to touch you?”

 

Harry touched her right nipple with his fingertip and pressed gently.  He pushed and pulled while he awaited her answer. He knew she’d say yes.  He drew her other achingly hard nipple between his teeth and listened to her gasp.

 

“I’ve a daughter,”  Pansy confessed. Tears tickled her eyelashes while her knickers were being tugged off.

 

“Do you want me to stop?”

 

“No!  Please, don’t stop,”  Pansy cried. She was achy, wet, and throbbing.  She needed him to continue until the stars burst behind her eyes.  

 

“Tell me about her,”  Harry instructed while he teased her slick lips.

 

“I-I was sixteen.  It was the first and last time I was with a wizard.  He refused to marry me and my mother hid me away in shame.  I was seventeen when she was born and she’s nearly four.”

 

“We’ll discuss this later.  Can’t very well have you come while discussing your daughter,”  Harry held Pansy tight and stroked her so gently she nearly came apart.  

 

She buried her dark hair against his shoulder and moaned.  She liked the feel of his fingers inside her. They were warm and gentle but harder than her own or even Luna’s.  He pressed in all the right places and allowed her pants and moans to guide him. He gave her breasts ample attention, which only sent her careening toward that crescendo.  She screamed long and hard when the moment snuck up on her, which forced Harry to kiss her into silence.

 

“That was, that was amazing,”  Pansy panted and flicked her dark tresses out of her equally dark eyes.

 

“We’re not finished yet.”  Harry rolled on top of her and immediately eased through her throbbing wet folds with a hiss.

 

With a muttered ‘fuck’, Harry was fully seated and it was glorious.  He grunted and stilled, knowing if he did so much as breathe, it’d be over.  Pansy was so tight it nearly hurt and he wanted to remain inside her as long as bloody possible.

 

“Get a move on, Potter,”  Pansy groaned and gripped his naked arse.

 

Harry withdrew slowly and slammed back hard, just to watch her hiss.  He stared down at her as he moved and watched her tits bounce with every harsh thrust.  He had to admit Pansy gave as good as she got and the bed squeaked loudly with their efforts.

 

“Oi, Harry, the Representative has been chosen!”  Ron bellowed from the other side of the door and the occupants ignored him.  “We’ve got to meet with the Minister and—oh!”

 

“Bit busy, Ron!”  Harry growled and dropped his forehead to Pansy’s.  He fervently hoped he wouldn’t come while Ron watched his arse bob.

 

“It’s rather important,”  Ron offered lamely, “are you nearly finished?”

 

“Get out Weasley!”  Pansy shrieked and it segued into the sexiest, throatiest moan Harry had ever heard.  

 

She clamped down on him and he felt her sex flutter around its unforgiving grip on his cock.  The door slammed just as Harry moaned in relief. His bollocks tightened and tingled while he grunted.  He could feel his release dripping down his shaft, but was remiss to withdraw.

 

“You like me,”  Harry stated matter of factly.

 

“So?  You like me as well, otherwise, you wouldn’t have fucked me like that,”  Pansy scoffed, but averted her dark eyes.

 

“I never pretended I didn’t.  I’ve been trying to shag you for two bloody years.”

 

Harry escaped the heat of his bed and hastily slipped into his trousers.  He knew Ron was just going to come back to pound on the door and it sounded urgent.  He hated leaving her like this, but duty called and all that rot.

 

“I thought you were in love with Luna,”  Pansy shyly admitted and pulled the wrinkled white sheet over her spent body.

 

“I love  _ fucking _ Luna, there’s a difference.  What does it matter? Are you in love with me or something?”  Harry laughed and pulled a clean red cotton shirt over his head.  He spun to stare at Pansy propped in his bed when she remained incredibly silent.  “Bollocks.”

 

“It was an accident!”  Pansy shouted. “Do you think I wanted this to happen?  You’re Harry Potter. I’ll always be the witch that said ‘just give him to the Dark Lord’.  I know it’ll never work. I know it’s all sorts of cocked up alright?” Pansy punched the bed and wrestled with the sheet until it was free.

 

“Don’t leave,”  Harry sighed. “You’re not going to get all Ginny on me, are you?”

 

“Don’t be insulting,”  Pansy sniffed as she searched for her knickers.  “We can just continue on the way it’s been.”

 

“Hey, what’s your daughter’s name?”  Harry shoved on his loafers and tossed Pansy her torn blouse.

 

“Dahlia, stop changing the subject,”  Pansy grimaced at the state of her blouse and wondered where she’d set her wand.

 

“Can I meet her?”  Harry embraced her from behind and kissed the side of her neck.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”  He tugged on the ends of her shoulder length hair and bit her earlobe.

 

“It’s one thing to break my heart.  I’m an adult. I make my own decisions.  I’ve opened myself up for this mess. It’s quite another to break hers.”

 

Harry didn’t quite know what to say to that.  He dropped his hands and nodded. He wanted to chat with her.  He wanted to understand what had changed between them, but the clomp of Ron’s heavy footsteps ruined those ideas.  Instead, he watched Pansy scurry into his bathroom and wished he could join her.

 

* * *

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt spat his cold tea back into his mug and pounded his fist on his sloppy desk.  He probably would have hexed the owl as well, but it wasn’t her fault she was forced to deliver such news.  His jowls jiggled with every angry shake of his bald head and in that moment, he detested being Minister.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.  The War was supposed to end with the fall of Voldemort.  Hell, Voldemort was supposed to fall. The Dark Arts artefacts were supposed to have been destroyed by a hapless group of teenagers.  It was Dumbledore’s flawless plan, but it didn’t fucking work, did it?

 

No, instead, a horcrux went missing.  Instead, Tom Riddle’s frail body was scurried away by Death Eaters in a cloud of black smoke.  Instead, there was a very real chance Voldemort would recruit new followers and the Wizarding World would be back where it started.

 

Kingsley had been so desperate to discover the location of the diadem, he’d sent Aurors on useless missions to follow every minuscule lead.  He’d readily accepted the offer of exchange but had been unwilling to sacrifice Harry. He knew now the original offer was a ploy, but it was far too late.

 

He had done exactly what the mystery wizard had wanted.  He had gifted Hermione Granger on a platter, ripe for the picking.  Her life would never be the same and it was his fault. Kingsley vowed not to tell them the truth.  He would never tell Harry and Ron. The secret would die with him, as it should.

 

“They’re here, Minister.”

 

“Send them in,”  he gruffly replied to his ancient secretary.

 

Harry and Ron anxiously entered the Minister’s office and immediately sat.  Ron’s leg bounced with apprehension, while Harry was decidedly morose. They patiently waited while Kingsley tidied his desk and hoped he’d address them soon.

 

“Our mystery wizard has made contact.”  Kingsley settled comfortably in his leather chair and waited.

 

“That’s soon, isn’t it?”  Ron asked. “From what my parents have told me, it could take months before the captor makes contact.”

 

“You are absolutely correct, Mr Weasley.  It's not uncommon for half a year to pass before a Representative is named, but not this time.  It seems Ms Granger’s status has sped things along.”

 

“What do you mean?”  Harry crossed one leg over the other and bounced his foot.

 

Kingsley mopped his face with a damp handkerchief and his lips pressed together in a firm, thin line.  He didn’t want to discuss any of this with them, but what choice was there? She hadn’t any family remaining.  They were all she had and it saddened him.

 

“The Holding Location has specific wards.  Those wards detect things such as blood status, magical capabilities, and innocence,”  Kingsley grimaced. “The moment Ms Granger passed into the location, she was subjected to analysis.  I believe our mystery wizard aims to  _ keep _ her.”

 

Ron’s breath was expelled loudly and he gripped the wooden arms of his chair.  He refused to lose his temper. He could get through this, for Hermione, he could get through anything.  Ron knew he would learn nothing if he shouted and thus, vowed to remain quiet.

 

“He can’t do that, can he?”  Harry frowned.

 

“She’s a virgin, Harry,”  Ron quietly answered. “The captor can decide to deflower her and impregnate her, which would lead to the Accords being extended for another year.  If he continues in his practices, she’d never be allowed to come home.”

 

“We should have told her!”  Harry shouted. “She had a right to know!  You tricked her! This is your fault!”

 

“I was bound to secrecy the moment my fingers touched the parchment, Mr Potter.  It had been imbued with Magicks I’d only dreamt of and as such, there was nothing I could do.”

 

“Ron just needs to find a way there then.  He needs to get there and he can be with Hermione and then—“ Harry sputtered.

 

“It doesn’t work that way, Harry,”  Ron’s eyes filled with heart wrenching sadness as he gazed at his oldest friend.  “She arrived innocent and she’s got to remain that way until she meets with the Designated Gailer.  The worst part is, we don’t even get to know his identity, isn’t that right, Minister?”

 

“How the fuck do you know all this, Ron?”  Harry shoved his friend and spittle flung from his lips.

 

“I read about it, alright?!  I am capable of doing research on my own.  I’ve spent every free moment trying to figure a way out of this.  I’ve spent every bloody hour worried sick for her, while you were shagging your way through London!”  Ron covered his mouth to keep further angry words from escaping and looked to the Minister with a silent apology.

 

“Severus Snape sent us a warning.”  Kingsley ignored their outburst. He understood their ire and did not fault them for it.  “He warns us against sending a Representative at all. It seems our mystery wizard is quite volatile and Severus fears for Ms Granger’s safety.”

 

“I can’t just leave her there alone.  I’ll do it,” Ron volunteered. “I’m not nearly as important as Harry as far as ending all this.  We all know that. We can’t risk Harry and if the bloody captor is already angry, it’ll be best if it’s me.  I’ve always been the expendable one.”

 

Harry sputtered, but the Minister held up a large hand that demanded silence.  Harry wanted to go! He wanted to see her! He wanted to explain everything! It wasn’t fair that yet again he was being pushed to the side for safety.  He was tired of playing it fucking safe.

 

“That would be acceptable, Mr Weasley.”  Kingsley nodded thoughtfully, his dark face completely unreadable.  “Consider this little meeting completely confidential. If there’s even a whisper of gossip, I’ll be forced to enter you both into The Vow.  We simply cannot risk it.”

 

“Yes, Minister,”  they answered solemnly.

 

“Mr Potter, you’re relieved.  Mr Weasley, I’d like a word.”

 

Harry nodded curtly and stormed from the Minister’s office.  His hands were shaking. His brow was freckled with sweat. He needed to hex something.  He needed to punch something. He needed to stand in an empty field and shout his frustrations.

 

“Watch it, Potter,”  Draco Malfoy sneered nastily and brushed the invisible lint from his pristine black robes.

 

“Malfoy,”  Harry spat.  “What are  _ you _ doing here?  You should have been locked up in Azkaban with your father.  How is dear old dad these days?” The corner of Harry’s upper lip twitched and it took every ounce of self-control to keep from drawing his wand.

 

“Dead, actually,”  Draco shrugged. “Hasn’t been the same since my mother died.  It’s a wonder he held on as long as he did. Perchance, do you know where I should report his demise?”

 

Harry’s green eyes widened and his shoulders simultaneously slumped.  He didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t sure if he should offer condolences or congratulations.  He might not have had any love for Lucius Malfoy, but losing a father was traumatic no matter the wizard.

 

“Uh yeah, the Auror Office should be able to point you in the right direction.  I think it’s customary for them to send Investigators when a former er uh,” Harry stumbled over his words and bit his tongue.

 

“Death Eater,  Prisoner, take your pick, Potter, they’re nearly the same anyway.”  Draco inclined his head and took a step. “Thank you for keeping your pity to yourself.  There’s nothing I hate more than false condolences when my father’s death is a blessing.”

 

Harry stepped onto the lift without a word.  What was there to say? He was still completely flummoxed that Draco Malfoy had been passably civil to him.  It had been a strange day and Harry Potter needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

The sky was heavily overcast by the time Ronald Weasley left the Ministry.  The chill was heavy in the air and it smelled like rain. The wind was sharp and burnt his ears.  The Muggles frowned at the strange man that stood beneath the light post but continued on in their journeys.

 

He couldn’t go home, not now.  Harry would either be completely pissed, shagging whatever willing witch wandered into his bed, or ask a million questions.  Ron didn’t want to put up with any of it.

 

There was only one place he knew he could go.  He wouldn’t be asked more than he could answer.  He wouldn’t be judged on his silence. He would be fed more than he could eat, which was saying a lot.  He would be offered a warm bed and even tucked in if he asked nicely. Ron Weasley was going home.

 

He caught the scent of freshly baked bread and nearly ran down the embankment.  He knew George would likely be at his shop and perhaps, if he were lucky, he’d have his parents all to himself.  The idea gave him an extra spring in his step. It had been so long since the Burrow had been quiet.

 

As he grew closer, Ron realised his ideas were folly.  His smile fell when the door burst open and his brothers tumbled out.  They were laughing and shoving each other, but he wanted no part of it.  He ached for a bit of peace and quiet. He hadn’t much time to make his decision and had been relying on his father’s clear head.

 

“Oi, Ron!  It’s Ronniekins!”  George swung his youngest brother into the air and spun Ron round before he hugged him fiercely.

 

Even stuffy Percy managed a small, yet proper smile at his brother’s antics.  It was still strange for him to step foot into the Burrow, but he had worked hard to make amends with his family.  He knew they were still wary, but even in hindsight, Percy had stood up for something he had thoroughly believed. His parents had always taught him to stick to his convictions, but apparently, that only meant when he agreed with them.  It was a pity it had all gone tits up, but he had his family back and that was what mattered.

 

“Are you alright, Ron?”  Percy carefully extricated Ron from the arm George had locked around his neck and led him into the house.

 

It wasn’t much quieter inside with Victoire and Teddy running about.  It made Ron sad. He’d only wished for some peace and quiet. Where else was he to go? 

 

He waved and smiled just as was expected of him.  He patted Victoire and Teddy on the head and only winced slightly when Bill slapped his back.  He submitted to his mother’s fierce hug and held her just a bit tighter for a second longer than usual.

 

He locked eyes with Percy and felt a strange kinship.  Ron and Percy had never been close. They’d disagreed on nearly everything.  Percy believed Ron to be too immature and Ron believed Percy to have a wand firmly shoved up his arse.

 

“Perce?”  

 

Percy nodded readily.  He wanted to help his brother.  It was obvious Ron was under considerable strain and he knew what that felt like.  He knew how that could wear on a person.

 

“Don’t you take all night,”  Molly chided. “Dinner’s nearly ready.”

 

Ron kissed his mother’s cheek and dutifully followed Percy up the rickety stairs.  He’d always hated them as a child. He’d hated the way they creaked, the way they twisted and turned.  He missed them now, or perhaps he missed the nostalgia of his childhood. Everything was easier when he was small.

 

“What’s the issue, Ron?”  Percy closed the door behind them and resisted the urge to crinkle his nose at the twin beds.  He definitely didn’t miss being crammed together in a proverbial can.

 

“I can’t go into detail, Minister’s orders.”  Ron sat on the lumpy mattress and leant against the wall.

 

“Ah yes, it’s difficult sometimes, especially when a moral dilemma is involved.”  Percy paced thoughtfully. “Let me guess. It involves Hermione Granger. I’ve noticed she hasn’t been bustling about the Ministry and the gossip has been nil, which isn’t the usual at all.”

 

Ron squirmed, which was the only sign that Percy was absolutely correct in his assumptions.  He prided himself on his ability to read people. He studied the way Ron folded in on himself and even the way his brother’s arms hugged his knees.  It was a sad sight that much was certain.

 

“I’m the youngest brother.  Everything that I’ve done has already been done.  It’s not amazing or even impressive. They call me a hero, but they could have done it without me and I know that.  We all know that. I’m alright with it most of the time because I was there. I was involved and it was mine. It was the one thing that wasn’t secondhand.  It’s been me and Harry and Hermione since we were eleven and everything’s changed now. I don’t think it’ll ever be the same, Perce.” Ron lowered his head to his knees and closed his eyes against the pain in his heart.

 

“Is there…anything you can tell me?  I could help, maybe, if I knew—“ Percy sighed.  He didn’t have words of comfort. He wasn’t particularly good with those, but he did try.

 

“The Minister has asked me something of great import.  It’s my decision whether to accept it or not. I’m not being forced into it or anything.  It’s just I can’t tell anyone.”

 

Percy finally sat across from his brother and rubbed the red stubble on his chin.  He was insanely curious as to the assignment. While he didn’t know Kingsley Shacklebolt well, Percy  _ did _ know the man was ridiculously private.  It made for wonderful intrigue.

 

“Not even Harry?  My, that is quite the conundrum, isn’t it, Ronald?”  Percy wanted to pat his brother’s hand in order to express his sympathies, but he didn’t.  He pulled on the collar of his starch white button down and cleared his throat instead. “Have you considered the ramifications?”

 

“You’re using your dictionary words again,”  Ron forlornly sighed.

 

“Quite right, uhm, what would happen if you refused the assignment?  I’m sure the Minister alluded to the pros and the cons, even if he didn’t speak them outright.”

 

Ron’s crystal blue eyes dripped tears onto his freckled cheeks.  He sniffled loudly and if he had been alone, he probably would have blown his nose on his sleeve.  He settled for wiping the soft flannel over his face as his bottom lip trembled.

 

“Yeah, it’s really quite easy, Percy.  If I don’t do it, everyone I love could die,”  Ron’s voice shook and his breath rattled on the inhale.  “If I do it, well I could die.”

  
  
  
  



	5. The Visit

 

* * *

 

The Warming Charm around the back garden held despite the dismal weather.  The flowers continued to bloom and the air was thick with the scent of them.  At times, it was difficult to discern between them. The roses melded with the lavender and rosemary, while the lilacs and lilies battled.

 

The creeping ivy kept the majority of the grey, stoned wall concealed from sight.  It wrapped around the nearby tree trunks and dipped over the side. The grasses were green, thick, and kissed with morning dew while the sun hid behind the light grey clouds that hung in the wispy light blue sky.

 

It would have been a beautiful day if she could have enjoyed it.  She enjoyed her walks in the garden. She used the time to think, not that she ever stopped.  It was serene and comforting in a situation permeated with complication and strife.

 

Her head ached from the hours she’d spent poring over the Accords.  She swore there was barely any progress. The jargon was tedious. The long winded language was enough to set her to tears.  She was usually a studious witch. She was usually the sort of woman that would rather spend her days curled up in an armchair with a heavy tome than at the pub, but it was different now.

 

“Mistress,”  Benedict the house elf greeted her as had become his habit and bowed low.

 

“I told you to stop calling me that,”  Hermione grumbled.

 

“Yes, Mistress,”  Benedict croaked. “Portkey at three.”

 

Hermione tucked a few curls behind her ear and wished for a hair tie.  The accommodations, while nice, were missing more than a few items. She understood the lack of sharp implements, though the Hair-Removal-Soap still irritated her.  She disliked her choices being taken away and being trapped in a cottage on the “cliffs of who knows” succinctly did that. 

 

She assumed she would have some sort of contact with someone other than a house elf.  She honestly believed Draco Malfoy would barrage her with his offensive presence more than once.  Nearly every day she swallowed the anxiety of his overtures and hoped against hope his promises wouldn’t come to fruition.

 

“Am I to have a visitor then?”

 

Benedict’s unseemly brown eyes narrowed, which was quite the fantastic feat and he gripped his faded tea towel angrily.  He didn’t like speaking to the Mudblood. He didn’t like hearing her voice. He didn’t like anything about her, but he was a good elf and would do as his Master bid.

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

He smiled secretly when she bristled at the title.  Benedict had been instructed to refer to her as his mistress and considering Draco Malfoy was his master, he did as he was told.  He wasn’t punished, per se, but threats of clothes were snarled on more than one occasion. 

 

He dutifully held the back door and lowered his head when the wretched brunette marched into the cottage.  He was somewhat thankful she hadn’t spent the last few weeks prattling in his ear, but she was entirely too inquisitive.  He detested the way she rifled through every drawer and cupboard, desperately searching for a means of escape. Silly witch, didn’t she realise by now?  She was never going home.

 

“Do you know,”  Hermione paused, unsure how to phrase the words.  “Who is visiting?”

 

Hermione set the kettle on the small cooker, despite the elf’s menacing glare.  She’d never met a more disagreeable elf, which was saying quite a lot considering her interactions with Kreacher.  There was nothing wrong with making her own cup of bloody tea and the sooner Benedict learnt it, the better.

 

“Master says you’re due a Representative.  He’ll be along as it pleases him.” Benedict set a bowl of hot stew on the dining table and Disapparated in a loud crack.

 

She hated that.  She really hated that.  It was simply a reminder that it was yet another thing a house elf could do that she could not.  She missed her wand desperately. If she were a lesser woman, Hermione would probably dissolve into hot tears, but she had more strength than that.  At least, she liked to think she did.

 

Hermione didn’t want to eat the bloody stew, but she was quite hungry.  She guessed it was sometime near midday, but she couldn’t be sure. The weather was dismal at times and the garden was charmed to remain ever the same.  She was frustrated. She was bored. She was starving.

 

* * *

 

Ron Weasley woke with a crick in his neck.  It was quite normal when it came to sleeping at the Burrow.  He hadn’t spent a single night at Grimmauld Place since his meeting with the Minister.  It was easier that way.

 

Harry had simply shrugged and said he hoped Ron would reconsider.  It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing, Ron supposed. His relationship with Harry had floundered a bit since the end of things between Harry and Ginny.

 

He was relieved to be quite honest.  He loved Harry. He loved his sister.  Ron simply didn’t love the idea of them together.  Naked. Shagging. He’d put up with it because he knew that Harry desperately wanted a family and it would be easy.  Gods, it would be so easy.

 

Harry was practically a Weasley anyway, but Ginny was a stubborn witch.  She wanted what her friends had. She wanted an extravagant wedding. She wanted a brightly decorated home.  She wanted to play for the Harpies. She wanted to fill her home with children. There was absolutely nothing wrong with that, except for the fact it wasn’t what Harry wanted.

 

Ron knew that really wasn’t the truth of the matter.  He knew Harry wanted those things. He ached for those things.  He simply didn’t want them with Ginny and he couldn’t tell her that.  Harry couldn’t speak that harsh truth and rip Ron’s youngest sister to shreds.  Harry’s kindness didn’t save Ginny from a broken heart, but at least it kept Ron from hearing about it.

 

Ginny had kept to herself for the most part, which was fine with Ron.  It afforded him quiet mornings and extra stacks of pancakes. What more could he want?  The answer was terribly simple. He wanted Hermione. He missed her desperately.

 

He had vacillated in his decision for so long, the Minister for Magic was forced to send another owl to inquire.  Ron had ignored it, despite Percy’s adamant declarations that it was rude. He didn’t care if it was rude. It was his life!  He had the right to take as much time as he fucking needed before he made a decision. Unfortunately, the Minister for Magic wasn’t nearly as patient as Ron believed he should be.

 

He had swallowed hard and finally scratched the shaky words into the parchment.  He didn’t want to do it. He knew it was beyond his scope of capabilities. He knew he would require Hermione’s help and if she said no, Ron knew he hadn’t a chance.

 

It was dangerous.  It was delicate. It had to be done nearly perfectly and Ron was not that sort of bloke at all.  He was clumsy and chewed with his mouth open. He snored. He drooled. He wasn’t particularly well read and his inner litany continued.

 

“Fuck!”  Ron shouted and tossed the frayed quilt to the side.

 

He could smell breakfast wafting up the stairs and his stomach growled.  It seemed to growl constantly these days and Ron knew it was due to the stresses.  He couldn't bear the sympathy laden glances his parent's cast in his direction. He hated the way Percy was just so fucking nice and went out of his way to visit Ron on the regular.

 

He just wanted things to go back to the way they were.  He almost wished he were back at Hogwarts. He’d study harder this time around.  He wouldn’t rely so heavily on Hermione to help him pass his classes. He’d be more considerate.  He’d ask her to the Yule Ball before Viktor fucking Krum ever looked in Hermione’s direction. He’d do everything right, but it was too late for that and he was much too old to entertain such childish dreams.

 

“Ron!  You’ve missed breakfast!  You’re lucky I love you,” Molly ruffled her son’s unkempt hair and set the platter before him.

 

Ron grunted and poured himself a cup of strong black tea.  He wished it were coffee, almost, but only because Hermione favoured it.  He’d never developed a taste. His heart hurt, but the grumble of his stomach won and he tucked in.

 

“What time is it?”  Ron asked around a mouthful of buttered toast.

 

“It’s nearly time for tea, Ronald.  You’ve slept the day away,” Molly clucked her tongue, but she wasn’t angry with him.  She didn’t understand, nor did she care for secrecy, but she had learned the greater good took precedence over all, even if she didn’t like it.  “This arrived while you were asleep. It looks rather important.”

 

Ron snatched the misshapen packaged from his mother's hands and tore off the heavy brown paper.  It was his Portkey with explicit instructions. It wasn't an ornate comb, like Hermione's, but it would get the job done.  They always did. 

 

It sort of looked like a dragon’s egg, but Ron didn’t give it much thought.  He had a job to do. He would do it and this ruddy egg would take him to his first task.  Ron laughed and specks of egg flew from his lips. The entire situation reminded him of the TriWizard Tournament. 

 

Gods, he’d been so jealous.  It was silly now. So many things were silly now and Ron wished he hadn’t been such an angry bloke.  His anger had ebbed when Harry nearly got killed. It was madness to suggest Harry had intentionally put his name into the Cup and that’s when it had really sunk in.  Ron had purposely put his name in the bloody Cup. It wasn’t the best analogy in the world, but it was all he had.

 

“Mum, I love you.  I’ll be back in a few hours.  You think you could ask dad to wait for me.  I wager I’ll need a strong drink and an even stronger shoulder,”  Ron pushed away his empty plate and glanced at his pocket watch. He didn’t have much time to spare.

 

“Of course, Ron.”  Molly patted her son’s cheek and watched his burly form step into the waning sun of the late afternoon.  This wasn’t going to end well. It never did.

 

* * *

 

Ron screamed.  It was a natural reaction to a reckless Portkey landing, especially when it caused him to flail on the edge of a rocky precipice.  His arms flapped and he resembled a large bird of prey, minus the screaming, of course. His feet finally caught purchase, once he remembered to move them and he kissed the ground in thanks.

 

He spat and wiped his lips free of the moist grass that had clung to them during his fall.  Ron grumbled under his breath about ruddy Portkeys and falling to his death while he brushed the dirt from dark brown trousers.  He was stalling and he knew it. He wasn’t ready to face her, not yet.

 

Finally, after so many moments passed he couldn’t recall where the sun sat in the sky, Ron looked toward the cottage.  It was larger than the Burrow and why it was called a cottage was beyond him. It was a nice looking house, he supposed.  He didn’t know much about them, really.

 

Ron trekked up the dirt path as slow as molasses.  He was excited and terrified and it laced together in such a way, he was afraid he was going to lose his lunch.  He swallowed the acrid taste of melted butter and felt the pancakes turn to stone.

 

“R-Ron?”

 

He heard her voice and the world stopped.  His lips curled into a smile and before he knew it, Ron was running.  He ran through the grasses. He tripped up the hill. He vaguely wondered why she didn’t come out to meet him, but it didn’t matter because she was there and he was home.

 

Ron ran up the steps so quickly he nearly fell and then he was through the door.  His mouth was filled with toffee curls and his nostrils with the familiar scent of herbs and citrus.  He squeezed her tightly and sighed against her shoulder.

 

Of course, everything was ruined when she pushed him away and smacked his chest and shoulders.  This was the fiery woman he remembered. She was a cyclone of flying limbs that managed to strike at him quite painfully and he let her.  He deserved it.

 

“How could you?!”  Hermione shrieked. “I am furious with you!  You and Harry both! You tricked me!”

 

Ron quietly closed the door and took a slow breath.  He had to be careful. He couldn’t reveal too much without breaking his promise to the Minister.  The last thing he wanted was to be trapped in an Unbreakable Vow in the midst of a terrifying dangerous mission.

 

“I know.  I’m awfully sorry.  The Minister made us,”  Ron sighed. He knew better than to approach her again.  His arms were still a bit sore.

 

“Of course, he did.”  Hermione tossed her arms into the air and growled.  “He’ll do anything he decides is best!”

 

“We’ve got to end this war, Mione.  You know how important it is,” Ron crashed into the armchair near the door and watched her perch on the edge of the settee.  “At least you’re safe?”

 

“I don’t want to be safe!  I want to help!” 

 

Hermione’s dark brown eyes narrowed as she studied him.  He was hiding something. She could always tell. She wanted to beat the answers from him, but the other part of her just wanted to sit on his lap and breathe him in.  Instead, she did nothing at all.

 

“I know,”  Ron stated.  “I know you want to help.  I know you probably feel completely helpless and utterly worthless all trapped here.  It was you or Harry, that was the choice, Mione.”

 

Hermione lowered her eyes and plucked at wide white stripes on her dark blue skirt.  She hadn’t an answer for that. She knew if the choice was between her and Harry, the obvious answer was her.  Harry was the only one that could end, Voldemort. At least, that’s what they’d all believed for so long that myth had segued into truth.

 

“Harry isn’t even a horcrux anymore,”  Hermione whispered as she tried to wrangle with her logic.

 

“They don’t know that.  You’ve got to understand,”  Ron pleaded. 

 

“I know, I’m trying.”  Hermione patted the space beside her and Ron shook his head.

 

“No, it’s better if I don’t.  There’s all sorts of rules and knowing me, I’d accidentally break one and then where would we be?  Merlin only knows what would happen to you then. Can’t have that.”

 

It was difficult for Ron to deny her.  He didn’t want to be the source of the flicker of sadness in her eyes.  He didn’t want to tell her no. He wanted her to cuddle into his side while they laughed and smiled, but he couldn’t.

 

“I’m completely bored with reading the Accords.  I don’t know what droll wizard dreamt them up, but they’re ridiculous.  Did you know I’m not allowed to have any sharp instruments, not even a ruddy quill?  Apparently, there’s a long history of witches offing themselves rather than simply resigning themselves to their fate,”  Hermione spat with a roll of her eyes.

 

“Mione, you’ve got to understand.  I don’t know anything about your particular Designated Gailer, but some of the women in the First War were maimed and seriously injured.  After hearing the horror stories, it’s no wonder other Prisoners of War opted to end their lives. I’m not saying I agree with it or anything, but they felt as if it was their only choice.  It’s sad, really.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth to tell Ron all about her visit from Draco Malfoy, but the wizard’s name caught in her throat.  She sounded as though she were choking on some unseen bit of meat, rather than trying to speak. She slammed her fist into the arm of the sofa as she realised it was the magicks of the wards that kept her silent.

 

“I can’t tell you anything about mine, not even his name.”

 

“I didn’t imagine you could.  It’s par for the course, really.”  Ron sounded much more nonchalant than he felt.

 

“I just wish there was something I could do.  I’m just meant to sit here for a year wearing scraps and eating stew?  The library here is absolutely dismal and I read most of those books long before Fourth Year.  I suppose the more advanced Spell Books would be against the rules. Merlin knows I might discover a way to utilise my magic and escape.”  Hermione laughed lightly, but it rang false. “Do you happen to know where I am?”

 

"No, and even if I did, I couldn't tell you.  I came in by Portkey. I've got to keep it on me at all times and when it heats, I'm required to step beyond the wards."  Ron squirmed uncomfortably. "Minister's given me an assignment."

 

Hermione leant forward, suddenly intrigued.  It had felt like ages since she’d conversed with someone else.  It had only been three weeks at the most, but it felt so much longer when the time was spent in solitude.

 

“Tell me all about it!”

 

“Yeah, see, that’s the thing.  I can’t really do that either. It seems there wasn’t much choice as far as choosing me.  It’ll probably interfere with my ability to visit you, but I was handpicked, which says something, doesn’t it?”  Ron smiled.

 

“What  _ can _ you tell me?”  Hermione’s exasperation grew to new heights and Ron was strangely thankful she hadn’t a wand.

 

“The Order is looking to infiltrate the Death Eaters.  Snape has improved Polyjuice and it’ll last much longer than twelve hours.  I’ve been chosen as one of the participants.” Ron scratched his head and carefully planned his next words.  “I’ve got to—bugger! This wasn’t supposed to happen! They said I’d have two hours and it’s barely been one.  I’m sorry Mione, I’ve got to step out.”

 

Ron rushed from the great room before Hermione could utter a word.  He ran past the wards and angrily yanked the Portkey from his pocket.  He felt it heat and closed his eyes, hoping it wouldn't activate.

 

Hermione mumbled under her breath and paced the length of the great room.  There wasn’t a point in attempting to venture outside again. The only fresh air she could enjoy was in the garden anyway.

 

She was insanely curious about Ron’s assignment.  She probably would have started a list of questions if she could.  She was the sort of woman that thought best with a quill firmly clenched between her fingers, but they’d taken that away.  They’d taken away nearly everything she loved and it was beginning to wear on her.

 

“Sorry!  I don’t know what that was about,”  Ron slammed the door and hurried to her side.  “I waited, but nothing happened. How strange is that?”  He laughed and pulled her into his arms.

 

Hermione was so stunned she melted into his embrace.  She loved the way he always smelled of homemade soap and grass clippings.  She missed him. She missed Harry as well, but Ron would always hold a special place in her heart.

 

“I miss you,”  Hermione sniffed into his faded red flannel.  “Now, tell me about this whole infiltrating the Death Eaters mission.”

 

Ron stiffened, but she didn’t notice.  She liked the way his hands stroked her back.  It was comforting and not something he usually did.  It was easy to allow him to nudge her toward the settee, and even easier to settle in his lap.  The hell with the rules, she needed this.

 

“They want me to impersonate someone, but I’ll need to practice,”  Ron whispered.

 

“I’ll help you,”  she spoke softly against his neck.  “Who is it?”

 

“It’s really exciting, but also a bit terrifying.  I don’t much care for the fact I’ve got to practice disdain and whatnot, but part of me thinks it’ll be hilarious to snog you senseless while I’m him.  If you’ll let me, that is.” Ron’s hand skimmed against her blouse and he paused when he struck bare skin.

 

“You haven’t answered the question, don’t think I haven’t noticed.”  Hermione slapped his chest lightly and snuggled into his shoulder.

 

"I'm really not supposed to tell you.  There's even talk of a decree that would ban us from sharing mission details unless we've a spouse."  Ron squeezed her a little tighter and sighed into the mess she called hair.

 

“Are you saying you’re not going to tell me unless I marry you?”  Hermione huffed.

 

“No, I just said they were considering it.  I mean, I’d like to marry you, if you’d have me and all.”  Ron’s hand caressed her ribs and she pretended she didn’t feel his thumb against the underside of her breast.

 

“I can’t possibly think about that now.  I’m a Prisoner of War.” Hermione shifted slightly and watched his hand move.

 

"I know that Hermione,"  Ron snorted. "I'm just saying that once all this starts, I'm going to have to stay him and I sort of like the idea of you agreeing to be mine."

 

“It’s hard to take you seriously when you’re incapable of looking in my eyes,”  Hermione teased.

 

“I’ve never,”  he gulped, “seen so much of you.  What on earth are you wearing?”

 

“I haven’t a choice, it’s what’s available.  D-do you hate it?” Hermione asked with the slightest cringe.

 

“No, actually, I really sort of like it.”  Ron licked his lips and reached for her.

 

She watched the way Ron’s fingers lazily stroked her exposed cleavage and shivered in delight.  He gently cupped her breast in his large hand and brushed his thumb over the hardened nipple. He bent his head and nuzzled the side of her throat ever so softly and sighed.

 

“Y-you’ve never touched me like that before,”  Hermione whispered. She was used to the voracious Ron that sort of mauled her excitedly.  It had always made her laugh, but this, this was something else entirely, and she liked it.

 

He adjusted her in his lap and bit back a moan.  He eyed her exposed thighs in the high slit of her skirt and smoothed both hands over her stomach as he kissed her neck.  Hermione sighed and pushed his hands up to her breasts. 

 

She'd never known Ron to be so gentle.  Usually, it was harsh gropes that led to frustrating snogs.  She didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable, not even when she felt his hand slip into the waistband of her skirt.  It was exhilarating to know she was consciously breaking the rules.

 

“Would you like me to touch you?”  Ron crooned into her ear.

 

Hermione nodded and turned her head to capture her lips.  He didn’t forcefully shove his tongue into her mouth and attempt to swallow her whole.  Instead, he teased her, left her aching for more, and eased his hand into her knickers. She was wet, just as he knew she would be and he moaned into her mouth.

 

He pulled on her left nipple, thrust his tongue between her lips, and slipped a singular finger within her depths at the same time.  Hermione shuddered and moaned as the ferocious ache began to build. She’d never had that before, not with Ron, not with anyone other than herself.

 

“Please, please don’t stop,”  Hermione begged.

 

“I want you,”  Ron whispered as his fingers moved to a furious beat.

 

He felt the sweat drip down her neck and felt her legs tremble.  He knew he could probably coerce her into anything as long as he kept his pace, and he considered it.  He ached from his want and groaned with her as she shattered against him.

 

“Gods, I bet that broke the rules, didn’t it?”  Hermione covered her face, suddenly embarrassed by the intimacy of it all.

 

“Mistress will be punished!”  Benedict shrieked.

 

Hermione leapt off Ron’s lap and covered as much of her body as she was able.  She tugged on her blouse and glared at the intruding house elf. She wasn’t afraid of the elf, per se, but the idea of punishment was a foreign concept.  

 

“Why are you here?  Get out!” Hermione demanded.

 

“Benedict was sent to tell Mistress to expect Master soon.  Master will not be pleased with Benedict’s report. Mistress was a naughty witch.  Mistress broke the rules. Mistress will be punished severely.”

 

Benedict took pleasure in delivering his decree.  He liked the way the red-haired oaf gulped. He liked the fear in the witch's eyes.  He liked the way she tried to hide the tremble of her hands from his sight, but Benedict saw.  Benedict saw everything and he couldn't wait to tell his Master every detail.

 

“I’ve got to go, Hermione,”  Ron rubbed the back of his neck and pretended the elf wasn’t there.

 

“Wait!”  Hermione followed him to the door and held onto his forearm.  “When will you be back? Gods, you probably don’t even know the answer to that, alright.  Uhm, what about your mission? How long are you going to remain in the snake’s den?” She stepped closer and tugged on his neck until he bent his head.  “Most importantly, who are you going to have to impersonate?”

 

Benedict had no interest in their secrets.  He shuffled off to the kitchen and set to preparing dinner.  He knew his Master would dine with the naughty Mistress. It was tedious work to be forced to cut her meats, but Benedict was a good elf.  He always did as he was told.

 

“I’ve got an Order meeting tonight.  I’ll imagine they’ll suss out the details,”  Ron avoided her probing eyes and stared into the distance.  “You’re not going to like it, Hermione.”

 

“Tell me,”  her voice broke and she wasn’t entirely sure why she was near tears.

 

Ron kissed her temple and stepped through the doorway.  She wasn’t sure he was going to tell her and she watched him walk away.  She held her breath when he paused on the last step and looked at her sadly over his shoulder.

 

“Draco Malfoy.”


	6. Punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be mindful of the story tags

 

* * *

 

The wind whistled through the trees and it was an ominous sound.  It matched his dark mood perfectly. The wolves howled at the moon and his keen eyes searched for them along the tree line.  The leaves rustled as they licked across the grasses and he shivered from the icy chill.

 

The grandfather clock in the foyer sounded the hour and he smiled.  It was time. He supposed he had made her wait long enough for punishment.  He chuckled into his gloved hand and imagined her gnawing her lip in consternation.  Perhaps, she’d even search the cottage for escape, not that she would find anything to aid her.

 

He’d seen to that and he had Benedict.  Benedict was delightfully helpful when the threat of clothes loomed on the horizon.  He’d never seen a more dedicated elf. It pleased him, but not as much as thoughts of Hermione Granger.

 

He hadn’t had a single episode since the last time he’d seen her in person.  He watched her nearly every day in the mirror, but it wasn’t the same. He craved her.  He often contemplated the feel of her in his arms, in his bed. It was driving him toward the brink of insanity, but he could be patient.

 

He would have to be patient if his delicious game of cat and mouse was ever to come to fruition.  The seeds had been planted and the Ministry for Magic had played directly into his hands. They hadn’t even put up a fuss.  They were still incredibly incompetent, which was wonderful.

 

The Dark Lord hadn’t contacted his followers after the Battle of Hogwarts, but it seemed the Ministry still believed him to be working behind the scenes.  The Death Eaters were busy doing their regular bouts of rabble-rousing, but it was all harmless sort of nonsense. They hadn’t really  _ done _ anything, other than be Death Eaters, not that anyone would dare to speak such blasphemy aloud.

 

“I can’t talk you out of it?”  Severus soundlessly entered Draco’s bedchamber with a grim face.

 

Severus always looked a bit grim, at least in Draco’s opinion.  He couldn’t recall a single instance when the man had actually smiled.  It piqued his interest, but he had much more important things on his mind than his Godfather’s nonexistent smiles.

 

“Why would you want to do that?”  Draco inquired casually.

 

“Draco, I know you honestly believe you love her, but if you did, if you truly did, you wouldn’t keep her locked in a gilded cage.  You’d want her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with you.” Severus implored the man to see reason, but his breaths were wasted.

 

“I’ll make her happy.  I only need a bit of time.”

 

Severus sputtered, but it wasn’t as though Draco was taking heed.  Instead, he watched the younger, unbalanced wizard wave his wand and Disapparate.  He groaned and retreated to his Potions Laboratory. He wasn’t forced to reflect on his poor decisions there.  He only had to concentrate on the concoction before him, which was exactly what he needed in order to avoid envisioning Ms Granger’s fate.

 

* * *

 

Hermione was still reeling from Ron’s declaration.  It was ridiculous. It was insanity, that’s what it was.  It was bloody impossible. She knew she wouldn’t be able to talk Ron out of his folly.  He would be absolutely adamant that it was well within his capabilities and that she was simply unsupportive.  There was nothing she could do, other than help him.

 

It was a daunting task, but Hermione was incredibly intrigued.  She knew she’d have to study Malfoy’s nuances and convey them to Ron.  It would have been so much easier if she had a bloody quill. Perhaps she could convince Malfoy a quill wasn’t a weapon.  It was the least he could provide considering her predicament.

 

“Mistress must bathe,”  Benedict demanded with a nasty sneer.

 

“Is that an order?”  Hermione lobbed back.  She’d had quite enough of the surly elf and her irritation was steadily rising.

 

“Mistress must bathe or Benedict must inform Master.  Mistress is already due punishment.” Benedict’s ears wriggled and it would have been amusing if the elf was the least bit endearing.

 

“I don’t want to bathe.”  Hermione ignored Benedict’s muttered epithets and continued in her musings.

 

Benedict waited until his Mistress paced near the bedchamber door and snapped his fingers.  He huffed quite happily when his Mistress was flung into the room and the door slammed shut.  He could hear her angrily pound at the door, but it didn’t bother him in the least. He had orders to follow.

 

He appeared behind her and chuckled when she shrieked in fright.  Rather than reiterate his statement, he merely pointed to the bathroom.  She stamped her foot, which had little effect on him. Another snap of his fingers and her clothing disappeared.

 

“You vile little—“  Hermione squeaked in alarm and rushed for the bathroom.

 

Benedict waited until he heard the taps turn and water flowed into the bathing tub.  His instructions were explicit. Mistress hadn’t been bathing properly and Master was displeased.  Master knew every movement Mistress made and it seemed Mistress detested the special soaps Master had provided.  Benedict knew exactly what to do.

 

“Are you happy now?  I’m bloody bathing!” Hermione shouted from behind the safety of the door and sunk into the steaming hot water.

 

Benedict chortled and his dark eyes that were usually filled with distaste were alight with mischief.  He clapped his hands happily and listened to the struggle that took place behind closed doors. The water splashed and Mistress choked on the waters, but it was her own fault.  She might refuse to utilise the gifts, but Benedict knew exactly how to remedy that.

 

Hermione unsuccessfully evaded the insistent bar of soap as it soared at her.  She ducked beneath the water, but she could only hold her breath for so long. When she emerged, she didn’t see it and dutifully washed her hair.  She closed her eyes and scrubbed, which is exactly when the bloody bar of soap assaulted her. 

 

It rushed across her upper body and Hermione felt as though harsh, unfamiliar hands were scrubbing her skin.  She felt the sting as her body hair fell away and attempted to catch the black bar. Suds dripped into her eyes and she cried out when it stung them. Her only recourse was to rinse and as she did, the bar quickly scrubbed the rest of her body, despite her protests.

 

“I’ve been violated by soap,”  she snarled and finished quickly.

 

When she emerged, Benedict was nowhere to be seen, but her nightwear was laid across the bed.  It wasn’t something she would have chosen. In fact, she’d taken to sleeping in her skirts and blouses as they covered more than the flimsy nighties.

 

She was completely unsurprised when the bureau and the wardrobe refused to open.  She felt as though she were a rat in a maze. She was obviously being led along, but to what end?  Hermione wondered if the elf was a little fucking pervert, but there was no one to ask.

 

She ignored the dressing gown and sat on the edge of the bed.  The dark green knickers matched the nightie and the dressing gown for Merlin’s sake.  It was absolutely ridiculous. She was alone. Why did anyone care what the hell she wore?  The sheer fabric was soft against her skin and the knickers were delightful, but that wasn’t the point.

 

Hermione was determined to get to the bottom of the ridiculousness when she heard the distinctive sound of a door slamming shut.  She knew it wasn’t Benedict. He never bothered with anything as mundane as doors. He utilised his elf magic and she swore it was just another way to remind her she hadn’t a wand.

 

She flung open the bedchamber door and hurried down the corridor to the sitting room.  She fervently hoped Ron had returned. She stepped into the room and frowned. The lights had been dimmed, which she hadn’t done, and the door slammed shut behind her.

 

“It seems, Ms Granger, you’ve been a naughty girl, haven’t you?”

 

Hermione gasped and backed away from the low toned growl until she felt the stone at her back.  Draco Malfoy stood in the shadows near the fireplace and she swallowed hard. She desperately wished she had donned the dressing gown laid across the bottom of the sinfully decadent bed, but it was too late.  She cursed her inherent curiosity. If she hadn’t been so desperate for a familiar face, she wouldn’t have rushed from the bedchamber in the first place.

 

“Was this your doing?”  Hermione asked, her voice trembling as she gestured at her ensemble.  It was obvious her reaction pleased him and she didn’t know what to think about that.  “Was _all_ of this your doing?”

 

“It’s nice to see captivity hasn’t altered your arrogance,” he scoffed and stepped closer.  “I’ve better things to do than babysit you, Granger. Although I must admit, the scenery isn’t half bad.”

 

He leered appreciatively at her barely concealed form and took pleasure in her discomfort.  He liked the way she squirmed under his perusal. Frankly, it got him a bit hot under the collar, not that he’d inform her of such things.  It couldn’t hurt to have a little taste, could it?

 

“I’ll just go and dress.  Perhaps you can explain to me how all this works after I’ve returned.”

 

Her air of authority was flimsy, but she tried.  Hermione pushed off the stone and attempted to walk around him toward the only bedchamber in the cottage.  Draco chuckled and easily caught her around the waist. She struggled, yet they both knew it was futile.

 

“I’d rather you didn’t,”  he hissed against her temple.  “Did you happen to read through the Accords?”

 

Hermione decided it was in her best interest to remain still.  She didn’t like the inflexion in his voice or the warm hand pressed against her stomach.  She’d read quite a lot of the thick treaty and her skin had crawled. She was furious with the Order for agreeing and slightly sickened by the details.

 

“Are you to be my gailer then?”  She whimpered when his grip around her waist tightened and his heavy breaths splashed against the back of her neck.

 

“Yet another boring assignment in a long litany of nonsense, Granger.  I’ve brought the shackle. I simply haven’t decided where to adhere it.”

 

Draco nudged her down the short corridor and kicked open her bedroom door.  The tremble of her limbs as they neared the bed was quite titillating, to say the least.  He might have promised not to injure her, but he did not promise not to touch. Semantics was one of his favourite games, after all.

 

“Shackle?  I didn’t read anything about that.  I read a seemingly endless list of rules to be adhered to by both sides, but—“

 

Draco shoved her hard and the air was stolen from her lungs as she hit the edge of the bed.  Hermione righted herself quickly, but he was there to stymie her movements. Her gossamer nightie had shifted and bared the crest of a singular breast, which drew his immediate attention.

 

“I wonder if it would fit around your breast,”  Draco mused.

 

“Let’s not find out.”  Hermione stubbornly adjusted the neckline of the indecent nightie and crossed her arms.  “You don’t want to soil yourself with me, Malfoy. Think of what your father would say.”

 

“My father told me to remember to Imperio you before I sink you to your knees.  He was quite concerned about your teeth while you sucked my cock.”

 

“Get away from me!  I am not doing that!  I am not here for your pleasure!  I am here to ensure—“ Hermione faltered then, honestly unsure of her current purpose.  In a fit of frustration, she climbed onto the bed in an effort to escape his closeness.

 

“Tsk tsk tsk, naughty Granger didn’t finish her homework.  We’ll have to rectify that immediately.”

 

Draco vacated the bedroom and she sighed in relief.  She thrust her arms into the dressing gown and tied it with shaky fingers.  She wondered if he’d left until she heard his shoes against the hardwoods. She scrambled to her feet and desperately searched for an exit she knew didn’t exist.

 

“What are you doing way over there?  This will never do. Come here.” Draco tapped his foot expectantly and Hermione bristled against the command.  “Must you make everything so difficult? I merely wish you to show something.”

 

He slapped a thick pile of parchment on the end of the bed and stalked toward her angrily.  She fought against his iron grip on her wrist, but it didn’t matter. In the end, she was face down, bent over the end of the bed and her hands were pinned on either side of her face.

 

“Don’t do this.  You’re better than this.  Let me go. I won’t tell anyone.”

 

Draco ignored her angry little tirade and adjusted her until she was propped on her forearms.  She hadn’t even realised he had Charmed her there until her curls fell into her eyes, and she was unable to push them away.  Her knees hit the ornate footboard and she cringed.

 

“I’m not going to fuck you, Granger.  You’re quite dramatic. I’m simply going to inspect the goods as is outlined in the Accords.  It would do you good to read them while I go about my business.” Draco chuckled at her outrage and ignored the throb of his cock in his trousers.  “Out loud please.”

 

“P-prisoners of War shall be thoroughly inspected upon arrival,”  Hermione read quietly. She flinched and gasped in indignation at the sting of his hand on her arse.

 

“Louder, Ms Granger.  The entire class can’t hear you if you mumble.”  Draco smiled and raised his hand again. He quite liked the sound of his strike against her skin and made note to continue the antics upon every arrival.

 

Hermione’s cheeks flamed and the flush spread across her chest, not that he could see it.  Her deepest, darkest desires were to be treated like a naughty student. She’d never considered sharing such intimate details with anyone and here was Draco Malfoy, spanking her like an errant student.

 

“Must you, Malfoy?”  She bit her lip harshly as another swat was dealt.

 

“Professor Malfoy to you, Ms Granger.  Continue.” Draco removed her dressing gown with a flick of his wand as it impeded his view.  He was surprised she didn’t shout with threats of violence, but he supposed she was humiliated beyond measure.

 

“Inspections include, but are not limited to: documentation of identifying marks, ability to obey orders, responses to direct stimuli both pain and pleasure, fertility levels as deemed necessary.”  Hermione’s jaw clenched in outrage as the underlying implications became abundantly clear.

 

“You can scream if you like, no one can hear you anyway,”  Draco offered.

 

“How exactly does one detect fertility levels,  _ Professor _ ?”  The sting on her arse startled her, but she still wasn’t sorry.  She remained silent as the strikes grew harder until finally, she choked on the sob lodged in her throat.

 

“Prisoners of War are usually kept, Granger,”  Draco flexed his fingers and wanted to remove her nightie.  “They are usually impregnated and kept. Continue reading.”

 

“No.  I refuse.  I rescind my agreeance.  I demand you return me to the Order immediately.”

 

Draco laughed.  Even bent over the bed in a sheer nightie with her arse a delightful shade of red, Hermione Granger still managed to be a stubborn witch.  Her voice dripped with disdain, but it was more than that. He stood over her and inhaled slow and deep. He laughed again, louder this time.  It was embarrassment. Poor little Granger was aroused and it was  _ his _ doing.

 

“As if your agreeance or disagreeance has any merit?”  Draco placed his hands on her hips and tugged until he was absolutely positive she could feel his arousal nestled against her bum.  “Sorry to disappoint you, Granger, but this was between the Order and an interested party.”

 

“An interested party?  What does that mean, Malfoy?  Would you let me up?!” Hermione yelped, yet remained spelled to the bed.

 

“Can’t do that yet.  I haven’t finished my inspection,”  Draco released her hips and caressed the red splotches on her arse.  “Read, Ms Granger.”

 

“Unsatisfactory inspections are documented in detail.  A Prisoner of War is expected to address concerns in order to provide satisfactory inspections,”  Hermione frowned deeply. “What does that mean, Professor?”

 

“Obedience,”  he hissed and pushed her nightie over her hips.  “Your smart mouth is going to be your demise, Ms Granger.”

 

“Who decides, Professor?”  Hermione detested this game they played, but she was rather sore.

 

“I do.  I am the Designated Gailer.  I decide if you are to receive pleasure or pain.  I decide if you’ve met the stipulations. I decide if you’ve been a good girl.  I decide if you are to remain a Prisoner of War or if you shall be given to Greyback to do as he pleases.  Please me and you please yourself, Ms Granger.”

 

“Are your rules different than those set forth in the Accords, Professor Malfoy?”  Hermione hung her head low, yet refused to cry. “Would you cover me please?”

 

“I do like to hear you say please, Ms Granger.  We’ve dabbled in pain, you received acceptable marks as far as those are concerned, but you’ve absolutely failed ability to follow orders.  I think pleasure would get the point across nicely, don’t you?” Draco tugged on her knickers despite her tightly clenched thighs.

 

“What happens if I fail?”  Hermione whispered while a half-dozen tears dripped from her cheeks.

 

“The missing horcrux remains missing and the war will never end.  Is that what you want, Ms Granger?”

 

Draco rounded her slowly, with a predatory gleam in his eyes and removed the thick packet of parchment.  She was quite beautiful with tears stuck to her lashes and humiliation pinking her cheeks, but he wanted to see her in the throes of ecstasy.  He knew he was going to break his prisoner and he was going to love every second of it.

 

“How do you know about them?  Why would you do that? Don’t you want this to be over?”  Hermione stood up in shock and winced at the dull throb at the small of her back, while she wondered when he had removed the Charm.

 

“You’ve already used up your demands, Ms Granger.  You’ve said no more times than I’d usually allow. I don’t feel like answering any more of your questions.  Come here and sit like a good girl.” Draco reclined upon the bed and patted the space beside him.

 

Begrudgingly, Hermione did as she was asked.  She did it for the cause. She did it for Harry.  She did it for that missing horcrux. She did as she was bid and she hated it.  She had been warned to expect debased things, but they were mentioned in soft tones with reassuring smiles.  This was different. This was Draco Malfoy, the wizard that hated her, staring at her practically nude body with unabashed desire.

 

“Ms Granger, I want you to give me your knickers.”  Draco slapped his wand against his open palm and licked his lips.  “Kneel beside me afterwards. Do you understand?”

 

“Y-yes Professor Malfoy.”  Hermione tugged the silk down her thighs and scrunched the fabric in her hand.  She knelt beside Draco and sat back on her heels.

 

“Are they wet, Ms Granger?  No sitting on your laurels. Spread your thighs, good girl.  Answer the question.”

 

Draco watched her struggle and his lips twitched with the desire to smirk.  Instead, he reached forward and gently slid his hand between her tightly closed knees.  He pushed and nearly sighed with delight as they spread. He crinkled the hem of her short nightie in his fist and caressed the gooseflesh on her supple thighs.

 

“Yes,” Hermione angrily spat.

 

“Wider, Ms Granger.  What a good girl you are, would you like a reward?  Tell me why your knickers were wet and I’ll give you one,”  he crooned. “Did you enjoy your spanking, Ms Granger?” His fingers tickled the inside of her thighs in hypnotizing strokes up and down.

 

“I don’t know!”  Hermione cried.

 

She was relieved when his hand withdrew and closed her eyes for a moment.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Prisoners of War didn’t suffer this, did they?  Was that why it was a practice utilised so sparingly?

 

When she opened her eyes, Malfoy was on his knees as well.  His crisp button-down had been removed, as well as the belt to his charcoal grey trousers.  It was easier to stare at his pale chest than into his eyes.

 

“Tell the truth, Ms Granger,”  Draco gently placed his left hand on her right shoulder and waited.

 

Hermione felt his hand on her shoulder.  It didn’t bother her as much as the other hand.  It had started at her shoulder and quickly segued to her breast.  She wanted to squeeze her thighs together, especially when her nipple hardened and he tugged on it through her nightie.

 

Her eyes burned with unshed tears when he reached beneath the sheer fabric.  She knew he wouldn’t be appeased by molesting one breast and she was right. He gave the other the same attentions while he suckled at her throat.

 

“Yes, Professor.  I liked it,” Hermione admitted bitterly.

 

“Good girl.”

 

Draco dragged his fingertips down her abdomen and then her folds.  She groaned when he touched her and it made him feel powerful. He pressed against her slick folds with featherlike strokes until her hips moved in time with his shallow thrusts.

 

“Please don’t,”  Hermione begged him one last time.

 

“Please don’t what, Ms Granger?  I’ll need you to be a bit more specific.”  Draco nuzzled her ear and painted delicious little circles between her legs.  He liked her muted gasps while she attempted to deny herself pleasure. He’d make her scream eventually.  He had nothing but time.

 

“Please don’t make me come, Professor.”  

 

It was too late.  Hermione knew it was too late.  She moaned loudly and her breasts tingled as she came on his fingers with a great shudder.  She slumped onto his shoulder and nearly sobbed in distress.

 

Draco removed her nightie and laid her on the pristinely white bed.  He knew she was upset. It was natural to be upset, especially when pleasure was received from an enemy.  He spread her dark curls on the coverlet and allowed her to believe they were done when he left the bed.

 

He removed his slacks and folded them neatly before he set them on the bureau.  He took out the wide silver band and decided her ankle was the best place for it.  He’d imbued the shackle with a bit of magic, but that was customary. He snapped it on her left ankle and used his wand to seal it shut.

 

He tossed his wand onto his small pile of clothing and returned his attention to the naked witch nearly a slumber.  Draco worked his way up her lithe legs and she’d barely moved. Her arm was tossed across her eyes and he did not like to be ignored.

 

“Bend your knees, Ms Granger, we’re not finished.”  Draco’s attention focused on her throbbing, swollen clit.

 

“No more, please,”  she begged and the heartbreak really gave him a thrill.

 

“You’ve been such a good girl, Ms Granger.  So wet. So willing. So responsive,” Draco crooned.

 

She was shrouded in guilt and shame while her body still thrummed with delight.  It was conflicting to the say the least and she wanted to be left alone.

 

“You’ve humiliated me.  Are you happy now? Is this what’s done to Prisoners of War, Malfoy?”  Her head snapped to the right with the force of his palm against her cheek.  “Professor Malfoy,” Hermione quickly amended.

 

“Potter and Weasley really should have read the fine print before they so readily offered you up.  I’m sure they didn’t bother to read a single word. If they had, they would have warned you.” Draco reclined beside her and ignored the anger that flowed off her in waves.  “Prisoners of War are usually impregnated upon arrival, my dear Ms Granger.” He bent his head and teased her dark pink crest with his teeth. “Children produced during the enactment of the Accords remain behind.  Did you know that? No, I wager you didn’t. Some women choose to leave their child and return to their former life, but usually, they remain. Of course, if the prisoner is bound in marriage, it creates quite the conundrum, but we don’t have that problem, do we?”

 

“Y-you said you weren’t going to have sex with me,”  Hermione murmured. “I’m engaged and you said you weren’t going to—“

 

“Don’t make me angry, Ms Granger,”  Draco hissed and violently kissed her.  She twisted and turned away from the pressure, but with his fingers dug into her chin, her efforts were minimal.  He forced his tongue into her mouth and she gagged on it while hot tears dripped into her hair. “I said I wouldn’t fuck you and I won’t.  I plan to leisurely enjoy you, Ms Granger. As for your engagement, we both know it's bollocks, don’t we? Weasley might have broached the subject.  He might have fingered you on the settee, but you didn’t agree to marry him, did you?”

 

“H-how did you know that?”  Hermione hiccoughed while he pinned her to the mattress.

 

She felt his erection brush against the apex of her thighs and winced from its heat.  His warm body covered hers and her hands were firmly grasped over her head in a vice grip.  His hips ground into hers and she hated everything about it.

 

“There’s an absolutely gorgeous mirror set just above the fireplace.  I watched, Ms Granger. I watched Weasley reach his hand into your knickers.  I watched your face as his bumbling fingers stroked your sex. I watched your lips part.  I listened to your gasps as you came and I stroked my cock to your symphony.” Draco licked the tears from her cheeks and sighed happily.

 

“I’m going to marry him,”  Hermione said stubbornly.

 

“I don’t care if you do, Ms Granger,”  Draco tweaked her nipples and smiled when she bit her lip.  “I will have you first. You will always remember that it was Draco Malfoy between your thighs.  You’ll remember my palm against your delectable arse. You’ll remember my fingers as they thrust into your willing wet sex.  You’ll remember the way you shattered on my tongue and finally. You’ll remember my cock as the first cock to bring you pleasure.”

 

He slid down her body, wrapped his arms around her legs and pressed his fingers into her thighs.  Draco was certain they would bruise and he wondered if she would tell Weasley about their activities.  Her sex was gleaming with arousal and her lips were begging for attention.

 

“Do I get a say in this?”  Hermione nervously asked. 

 

Her chest rose and fell and gods be damned if she wasn’t excited.  It was oddly thrilling to see Draco Malfoy’s platinum blond strands between her thighs.  She gasped with a shiver when he exhaled against her sex and kissed her thigh.

 

“You were such a good girl during your punishment.  I suppose I could give you a choice, would you like that?”  Draco asked quite kindly. He waited until she nodded and smiled.  “Face it, love. I’m going to have you. You could be a willing participant and perhaps I could gift you a quill and some parchment, or you could struggle and receive nothing other than my cock.  Which will it be, love?” He pressed a soft kiss to her enticing bundle of nerves and moaned.

 

“That’s not, that’s not fair,”  Hermione panted.

 

Wide, flat swipes of his tongue had her arching off the bed in a desperate effort to escape the pleasure.  Her fists gripped the sheets and her head thrashed. He hummed in pleasure while she pleadingly chanted  _ please _ , which only spurred him on.  She cried out loudly and he watched, completely enamoured of the way her sex vibrated against his tongue and her legs trembled over his shoulders.

 

“All is fair in love and war,”  Draco teased. He pulled away right as she rocked on the edge of explosion and it pleased him immensely when she whined in discontent.

 

“I want new books.  I want a quill. I want parchment.  I want to see my Representative twice week—“

 

“Twice a month,”  Draco countered.

 

Hermione squirmed, desperate for a bit of friction.  It wasn’t fair that he could do this to her. It wasn’t fair that he could raise her to heights she’d never known.  It wasn’t fair she had to barter her body for a bit of decency, but it also wasn’t fair Harry had been a pawn for nearly all his life.

 

“Alright,”  Hermione begrudgingly agreed and hissed as her shackle grew uncomfortably warm.

 

“That my dear was proof of our magical contract.  It will remind you when necessary. Gods,” Draco chuckled against her thigh just to watch her quiver.  “I’ve just managed to talk Hermione Granger into being my mistress.”

 

“Wait, what?”  Hermione sat up and pretended his tongue wasn’t licking her thigh.  “This is just a, it’s just a one-off, Malfoy.”

 

“You are a delightfully silly witch.  Why on earth would I agree to that? No, no, love.  You’ve just agreed to shag me for the duration of your stay and I couldn’t be happier.” 

 

He pushed her back and climbed on top of her so quickly she barely had time to blink.  Her sore breasts scraped against his chest and she felt him prod her entrance. She stiffened and valiantly pushed against him, which only elicited his laughter.  Her hips were wedged beneath a pillow and suddenly he was taking her innocence.

 

“What a good girl,”  Draco moaned as he pushed inside her.  “Such a good girl. Do you like that, Granger?”  He pinned her hands over her head and flexed his hips until he felt her pubic bone ground against his.  “Oh, baby you’re so good, so very good.” He withdrew achingly slow and thrust hard, elongating her humiliation and his pleasure.

 

Hermione wanted to say she hated every second of it, but she didn’t.  She hated her body for the way it betrayed her. She hated the ecstasy painted on Malfoy’s face.  She hated the way he moved slowly and whispered what he considered sweet nothings in her ear. 

 

She hated the way her entire body tingled and she couldn’t help but compare him to Ron.  Ron had never elicited such a response from her and it wasn’t fair. She loved Ron, but there was something about Malfoy’s rough and tumble attitude that had her releasing throaty moans and digging her nails into his back.

 

She hated how Malfoy’s slow movements and gentle strokes forced her to feel.  She didn’t want to feel, not like this, not with him. She didn’t recognise her needy whimpers.  She didn’t recognise herself while she desperately clung to the man above her, even as he spilt into her with a loud groan.

 

“Please get off me,”  Hermione whispered, completely ashamed of her actions.

 

“I can’t do that yet.  You haven’t finished.” Draco released her arms, which stung as the blood returned to them.  While she rubbed her wrists, he quickly brought her to orgasm, which she wasn’t expecting. 

 

“There’s no need for, oh my gods,”  Hermione keened as her vision blurred and her eyes rolled back in her head.

 

“You are magnificent.”  Draco flopped at her side and possessively tossed his arm across her stomach.  He kissed her cheek and held her firmly in place. “It would have been better if you’d finished with me, higher chances of conception and all that.  There’s always next time.”

 

Hermione didn’t reply.  She didn’t cry. She didn’t feel as though she needed to cry.  She didn’t feel guilty anymore either. She was simply a woman trying to survive.  There were worse things in the world than falling into bed with a man that sought her pleasure, wasn’t there?


	7. Harry & The Harem

* * *

 

The air was filled with the sounds of morning and Harry hated it.  The little bastard bird perched outside his window continued to tweet its happy tune and he was tempted to blast it to bits.  He didn’t want to face the day, especially after last night. He wanted to cover his head with a feather pillow until he couldn’t breathe, but then who would kill Tom Riddle?

 

It was all so stupid.  He wasn’t even a horcrux anymore.  It didn’t matter who killed the bastard, but try telling that to the Wizengamot!  They were an obstinate lot of old, cranky wizards, completely unwilling to alter their views on nearly anything.

 

“No, Harry you can’t go on the mission.  You’re too important to the cause,” Harry sneered in a perfectly nasal imitation of the Head Auror.  “Important my arse.”

 

Harry’s head pounded and for once, it wasn’t due to overindulging in libation.  He almost wished it were. It would be easy enough to fix with a lovely dash of firewhiskey in his morning cup of coffee.  He wondered if it would work for headaches caused by the Ministry and decided it couldn’t hurt to try.

 

He shuffled down the steep steps and swore he could smell coffee.  He was certain his senses were playing tricks on him as he hadn’t seen Ron in quite some time.  He shivered and almost wished he hadn’t sent Kreacher to Hogwarts, almost.

 

“Like that?”  came the familiar voice of Pansy Parkinson.

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

Harry pushed into the kitchen and stared in amazement.  He couldn’t believe his eyes. Pansy stood at the cooktop and bloody Kreacher stood beside her.  The crotchety elf nodded solemnly and hovered as Pansy turned the bacon.

 

“Morning?”  Harry yawned and scratched his head while he shuffled to the table.

 

“Master needs his coffee,”  Kreacher declared and poured the piping hot liquid into a chipped mug.

 

“Yeah, coffee’s great,”  Harry said absently. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

 

His elbows slammed against the wood table, yet he quickly remedied the situation and sat his hands in his lap.  He strangely felt like an errant student the way Kreacher frowned at him. Harry waited for Pansy to acknowledge him, but she was so focused on burning the eggs and turning the bacon, he supposed it would have to wait.

 

“I went up to Hogwarts yesterday to speak with Neville Longbottom.  My lavender bush is looking putrid, to say the least, and I've watered it, but Longbottom said it needed more care than that.”  Pansy flinched and half flipped the poor hotcake. She shrugged. It didn’t matter. She could serve Harry battered rocks and he’d eat them.  “I happened upon Kreacher and he said I smelled like his master. I laughed at him and said well that’s impossible unless your master is Harry Potter and here we are.”

 

Pansy proudly set a plate before Harry and smiled brightly.  He was a little afraid. He didn’t know Pansy could cook and from the looks of his plate, she really couldn’t.  

 

The bacon was black.  The eggs were brown. The hotcakes, at least he thought they were supposed to be hotcakes, were just this mushy little pile on the edge of the plate.

 

“This looks great!”  Harry sipped his coffee and sighed in relief that the bitter concoction had managed to remain the same.

 

“Kreacher made the coffee, Master.”  The old elf bowed slightly and shook his head at the mess on the cooktop.

 

Pansy took the seat across from him and watched him carefully.  Harry knew he had to make a show of eating the disaster on his plate without hurting her delicate feelings.  For a Slytherin, she was strangely sensitive.

 

He lifted his fork and shoved a bit of egg between his lips.  He wasn’t much of a cook, but he was fairly certain eggs weren’t supposed to be crunchy.  He washed down the bits that stuck in his throat with his coffee and attempted the mush next.  It tasted alright, but it was by no means delicious, not that he’d tell her.

 

“Thanks, Pansy,”  Harry smiled and gnawed on his bacon.

 

“You weren’t supposed to eat it!”  She shrieked and snatched his plate away.  “Gods, you’re really a Gryffindor through and through aren’t you?  It’s dismal. I wouldn’t feed that to my mother’s elf and I can’t stand the bugger.”

 

“Why did you give it to me if I’m not supposed to eat it?”  Harry asked quietly, though he had to admit he was rather amused.

 

Pansy sighed and stared at the ceiling.  She wasn’t the sort of witch that was particularly good at voicing her feelings on things.  It still irritated her that Harry Potter had discerned her feelings for him before she’d had a real chance to come to terms with them.

 

“You mentioned my daughter and well I don’t know.  I can’t cook, alright? I can’t cook. I don’t have a job.  I’m really sort of useless, but I have a daughter and Harry Potter wants to know all about her.  It’s a lot for me to deal with all at once. Longbottom mentioned his bint makes him breakfast and I thought I’d give it a try, which was a terrible idea.  I mean look at it. The eggs are crunchy, Harry and you ate them. You ate them! Why did you do that?” Pansy propped her face on her hand and poked the mush with her forefinger.

 

Harry threw his head back and laughed.  She wasn’t making a lick of sense, not really.  He didn’t understand what her daughter had to do with breakfast.  He figured she probably didn’t know either, which amused him greatly.

 

“I didn’t want to hurt your feelings,”  said Harry with a shrug.

 

“Yeah, see, I don’t understand that at all.  If I served that to Dahlia, she’d grimace, toss it on the floor and tell me to never offer her rubbish again.”

 

Pansy got up and scraped Harry’s plate into the bin and set the dish in the sink basin with a clatter.  She had bits of hotcake batter on her cheek, her hair was a bit frizzy, she was obviously exasperated, and Harry thought she’d never looked prettier.

 

“I’d like to meet her, Dahlia, I mean.”

 

“I heard you that day,”  Pansy said. “When you were having that row with the Weasley girl, I heard you.  You said you didn’t want a family. Well, you said you didn’t want to get married and have children.  I don’t think I would be a good mum if I introduced you to my daughter and you decided you didn’t want her.  I mean, I’m saying this all wrong. I can’t have people flitting in and out of her life, alright?”

 

Harry yanked his plaid robe closed and knotted the belt.  He stood and nearly tripped over the leg of his chair in his haste to get to her.  Pansy had a tendency to leave after she said something meaningful and Harry had come to learn the signs.

 

“Pans, I didn’t want those things with  _ her _ .  I was just trying to spare her feelings,”  Harry kissed the back of her neck and held her still.  “It drives me mad that you stay here, you practically live here and I haven’t met your daughter.  You’re not pressuring me into something I don’t want. I’m telling you. I want to meet her. I want to know her.  I want to spend time with her and with you. I want to see if we’ve got something cos it sure feels like we’ve got something.  Hell, it feels more real than anything I’ve ever had and it has absolutely nothing to do with how you feel about me.”

 

“I don’t like it,”  Pansy sniffed. “It was an accident and I don’t know how it happened.  I didn’t mean to fall in love with you and I don’t like that you know. You weren’t supposed to know.  I don’t know if you were ever supposed to know and it's changed everything.”

 

Harry slowly turned the dark-haired beauty until the top of her head struck his chin.  He tucked her into his arms and rocked her the way he rocked Teddy. He wanted Pansy to know Teddy.  He wanted her to see him with his godson. He wanted to see her daughter and his godson play in the sitting room while they drank cocoa.  Dammit, he wanted his own family. It wasn’t a sin. He simply hadn’t wanted it with Ginny.

 

“Y-you love her,”  the broken whisper disrupted the easy silence.

 

Harry glanced up and winced.  Ginny Weasley hastily brushed the soot from her bright blue dress.  It was obvious she had dressed for him. Her hair was ridiculously shiny and her dress was new.  At least, he’d never seen it before and he’d seen it all.

 

“What are you doing here?”  Harry asked quietly. 

 

Ginny noted that he didn’t deny it.  She also noticed how he held the Slytherin a little tighter and almost seemed to shield Pansy from her.  It hurt to see him this way. It hurt to know that he’d never held her like that. She’d never sat with him over breakfast.  She’d never stayed the bloody night.

 

There were so many things she’d never been privy to and it struck her right then.  The ache of it all nearly made her double over, but she merely winced instead. Gods, how it hurt.  Her eyes burned and Ginny knew her nose was ridiculously red, but it couldn’t be helped. 

 

He didn’t love her.  He’d never loved her.  She was still a silly little girl in love with the idea of a man, even after all this time.  She was a fool and she hated that the most.

 

“I shouldn’t have come.  I’m sorry. It was a stupid idea, I see that now.”  Ginny spun on her heel and Harry watched her go. There really was nothing left to say.

 

“Would Mistress like a cup of tea?”  Kreacher asked kindly.

 

“Kreacher, she’s not your Mistress.”  Harry frowned slightly, but the idea didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would.

 

“Hmpf,”  Kreacher huffed, “Master never looked at Miss Ginny the way he looks at Mistress.”

 

"Ok, that may be so, but Pansy still isn't your Mistress, Kreacher."  Harry scoffed but he wasn't angry. He was a bit confused, definitely, but not angry.

 

“She will be,”  Kreacher declared and set the kettle on the cooktop.

 

* * *

 

Hermione woke with a heavy arm draped over her waist.  Instinctually, she relaxed into the body behind her. It was natural to assume in her semi-conscious state that it was Ron wedged behind her.  She closed her tired eyes and revelled in the warmth.

 

It reminded her of the musty tent and the way they huddled together for warmth.  It was a dark time, but she had never felt closer to Harry and Ron. She cared for them deeply.  They were her family.

 

She didn’t dwell on the time period when Ron had left them.  It was the horcrux. It wasn’t his fault. She had been angry, but she couldn’t remain that way.  If it hadn’t been for Ron, Harry would have drowned like an idiot. Gods, how were they going to do anything without her?

 

She sighed softly when the familiar warm hand tenderly caressed her breast.  Ron had always had an affinity for her breasts. They weren’t particularly impressive, at least not to her, but he had always told her they were the best he’d ever seen.  She’d once asked him how many pairs he’d seen, but it wasn’t a question he had ever answered.

 

The room was enshrouded in darkness and even when her lashes fluttered, she was incapable of seeing anything at all.  Her mind was fuzzy and it required entirely too much effort to clear her thoughts. It was one of the few times in her life that Hermione didn’t want to think.  She didn’t want to analyze. She simply wanted to feel.

 

She felt her hair being pushed off her neck and those soft lips nibbled her throat.  She felt her skin pucker with gooseflesh and her toes twitched in delight. She wanted to turn, but his arms held her firmly in place, not that she truly minded.

 

It wasn’t like Ron to be so demanding, but she wasn’t about to complain about it.  It was absolutely divine the way his lips and fingers moved in perfect harmony until her chest rumbled with a muted groan.  It was the natural progression of things to open her legs when prodded.

 

She could feel the impressive erection nestled against her bum and it made her feel powerful.  She wriggled against it and listened to him hiss. She bit her lip mid-moan as his fingers eased between her thighs and investigated her wet folds.

 

She brazenly pressed her palm over his and directed his ministrations.  Her high-pitched moan drowned out his hoarse ‘ _ yes’ _ , which was probably for the best.  She started, suddenly nervous when he adjusted his cock and he paused.  He kissed her neck until she relaxed into him with a sigh.

 

“Oh gods,”  she whimpered.

 

He rocked into her slowly, determined to keep his head.  It was sensory overload as far as she was concerned. The feel of his thrusts combined with his lips against her skin and his deliciously subtle strokes that teased her throbbing crux sent her careening over the edge of bliss with a mind-numbing moan.  He grunted as her body clamped down on him and a few strokes later, she felt him come to his end.

 

“I love you,”  he muttered in her ear, his voice raspy and laced with exhaustion.

 

“I love you back,”  she sighed. “Gods, that was amazing.”

 

“It’ll only get better, love.”

 

She smiled and her eyes drooped.  The moment her breaths deepened, he slipped his cock from between her thighs and reclined on his back.  He stared at the ceiling and smiled. She loved him.

 

Later, when Hermione truly woke, she was alone.  The heavy charcoal grey draperies had been pulled open and the sunlight licked at her eyelids.  She was surprisingly content and had the most wonderful dream.

 

She stretched her arms over her head and winced at the ache between her legs.  She rapidly blinked away the sleepiness that clung to her and sat up in alarm. The sheet fell to her waist and it was only then Hermione realised she was nude.

 

Her breasts were sore and she easily noted her swollen nipples.  She winced when she glanced around the bedchamber and gasped at the love bite she felt on the top of her shoulder.  She leapt from the bed and raced for the bathroom vanity.

 

The bruise was nearly black and it disturbed her.  It wasn’t a dream. It was real, which meant—

 

“No,”  she breathed.

 

She swallowed hard and thrust her hand between her legs.  Her fingertips came away sticky and her shoulders slumped.  Her sex was obviously battered and then she recalled the words spoken in the dead of night.

 

“Oh gods, oh gods,”  Hermione muttered just before she heaved into the sink basin.  “I-I slept with him. I didn’t even put up a fuss. Merlin,” she gasped.  “I told him I loved him back.”

 

She refused to cry.  It was a mistake, that’s all.  She would simply explain and everything would be fine.  

 

Resolutely, Hermione donned one of the few dresses in the wardrobe.  Despite the daring décolletage, she wore a lacy brassiere anyway. It made her feel slightly protected to wear layers, even if they were barely more than scraps of fabric.  

 

“Mistress looks lovely.  Master will be pleased.” Benedict tried to smile, but a mouthful of teeth on display is never a pretty sight.

 

“I didn’t do this for him,” Hermione spat.

 

She would be lying if she said she didn’t love the feel of the chiffon against her skin.  The dark blues and greens swirled together and it reminded her of the forest. The sides of her breasts were on display, despite her bra and she was uncomfortable with how low the dress fell.  She knew if she bent at the waist, they were likely to fall out, which was probably the purpose.

 

“He’ll be pleased regardless,”  Benedict cackled. “Master is in high spirits.  Mistress shouldn’t dally.”

 

“H-he’s here?”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”  Draco strode into the bedroom and he eyed her hungrily.

 

Her coffee curls were tamed and hung down her back in tumbled disarray.  The wide navy belt made her breasts seem larger than life and he appreciated them greatly.  They weren’t the largest he’d ever encountered, but they fit perfectly in his large hands and he itched to touch them.

 

“I wasn’t expecting it, is all.”  She spun from his gaze under the guise of folding her nightie.  “Listen, about this morning,” she began.

 

She felt the heat of his body behind her long before his hands grasped her waist.  She shivered against him. There was something about his tongue against the delicate skin of her shoulder that unsettled her.

 

“Hmm,”  Draco sighed into her hair, “that’s better.”

 

Draco pushed the dress off her shoulders and unclasped her bra.  He preferred her compliant if there was a choice in the matter. He hoped she would remain pliant and willing.

 

“Master, breakfast is served.”

 

Draco tugged Hermione’s bodice over her pebbled peaks with regret.  He was insatiable as far as she was concerned, but a man did need to eat.  He entwined their fingers and led her to the dining table in silence.

 

It was quite domestic he decided, while he perused the Prophet.  He wished she’d eat more than a bit of buttered toast and tea, but it was a start.  She’d get used to him. It took time and he had plenty of it.

 

“How long are you staying?”  Hermione asked and pushed her plate to the side.

 

“Two weeks, love,”  Draco glanced over the top of the Prophet pages and watched her gaze out the window.  “The next Portkey is in two weeks, as we agreed. I decided I’d rather like to spend a bit of uninterrupted time with you.”

 

“I’d like to send an owl.”

 

Draco saw the way her lips twitched.  He knew it was incredibly difficult for her to ask him anything.  He’d provided the parchment and quills as negotiated, but there was nothing wrong with sweetening the pot.

 

“Are we entering into negotiations?”  Draco folded the Daily Prophet and set it on the edge of the table while Benedict cleared breakfast.

 

“I suppose I believed you’d allow me such niceties considering this morning.”  Hermione sulked and it reminded him of their younger years.

 

“This morning was a gift, given freely.  If you wish something from me—“ Draco allowed his statement to hang in the air and she rolled her eyes.

 

“What do you want?”  She snorted. “Please don’t say intercourse.  I find I’m rather uhm indisposed from yesterday.”  Hermione winced at the admission and felt her cheeks heat.

 

Draco’s lips stretched into a slow smile.  He unbuttoned his dark grey waistcoat and removed the platinum cufflinks emblazoned with a large black M.  Hermione sat perfectly still while he rolled the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and ignored the black ink against his forearm.

 

“I’ve quite the hankering for something sweet.  Are you sweet, Granger?” Draco scraped his chair against the dark hardwoods and patted his knee.  “Benedict, retrieve a Pain Potion from the loo.”

 

“I don’t want to have sex with you again,” Hermione whispered.

 

She didn’t wish to be spanked and fucked as punishment either.  Though it was against her better judgement, she stood. She dallied slightly and pushed her chair beneath the table before she approached him.  She really didn’t want to sit on his knee either, but she tried to weigh the pros and cons of the situation.

 

“How important is this owl to you?”  Draco tugged on her hand until she stood between his knees.

 

Hermione delayed her response by taking the offered phial.  She removed the stopper and sniffed. It didn’t smell like any Pain Potion she’d ever encountered and she paused.  Draco tapped her chin and tipped the phial until she felt the liquid against her tongue.

 

“Thank you.”  Hermione felt the effects immediately as it coursed through her.  There was still discomfort to be certain, but it wasn’t the sting that was present before.  “I’d simply like to send one, is that a crime?”

 

“To whom?”  he asked and licked the exposed skin from her navel to her throat in one long languid stroke.

 

Hermione stubbornly refused to answer him, even as he sat her on the edge of the long dining table.  She winced when he wrenched her legs apart and tossed her dress up her thighs. She tried to ignore him when he peppered the sides of her knees with kisses, but it was difficult.

 

Her breath caught when he caressed her calves and focused on the tight muscles until they turned to putty beneath his ministrations.  Her hands slipped against the table and she realised her palms were sweating. She gripped the smooth edge, but Draco pressed against her abdomen until she was spread across the wood.

 

Hermione grappled for his wrists when he slipped beneath her dress and tugged at her knickers.  He paused and suckled the inside of her right thigh. Her grip hadn’t lessened but the exasperated groan alerted him to his progress.

 

“Are you sweet, Granger?”  Draco asked her once more.

 

“I don’t know what that means,”  Hermione hissed between clenched teeth.

 

Draco scoffed lightly and pressed his lips to the damp cotton apex of her knickers.  His tongue slid along the thin elastic and dipped behind the lace. He blew just to watch her clench.  He liked the way her head thrashed as she attempted to deny herself pleasure.

 

“Be a good girl and tell me about the owl.  Give me a name, love,” Draco whispered against her covered sex and the buck of her hips was the desired reaction.

 

“H-harry,”  Hermione panted.

 

He pulled his wrists free and tore her knickers off in a single tug.  The sound of ripping lace filled her ears and her legs flopped over his shoulders, but she didn’t care.  Her fingers tangled in his blonde hair and she moaned when he hummed against her begging bundle of oversensitive nerves.

 

“What a good girl,”  Draco crooned. “My good girl is so very sweet, isn’t she?”

 

“Please,”  she begged, “gods, yes, there,”  she moaned while his tongue speared her flesh.

 

She pressed against his head and focused on the tight coil that sought to be sprung.  Her hair stuck to her forehead and she didn’t care. She only cared about the elusive high.  She hurriedly pushed her dress off her shoulders and sought his hands, which he readily gave her.  She pressed his palms against her sensitive nipples, arched her back off the table, and exploded in a head throbbing moan against his tongue.

 

Draco stood and stared down at her.  He was pleased to see her completely dishevelled.  The hint of disappointment when he stepped away from her made his heart soar.  She wanted him. She was disappointed he didn't shag her senseless. Progress. It was definite progress and he couldn't wait for the day when she came to him of her own accord.

 

Later, Hermione scratched a few words across a piece of parchment and sealed it in an envelope before she handed it to Benedict.  She didn’t see Draco slip her missive into a larger envelope. She also didn’t see the photograph he’d enclosed. It seemed she was preoccupied with the aftershocks of her orgasm.

 

* * *

 

“What do you mean?”  Ron asked.

 

He was so confused.  It was so much information they tried to cram into his head.  Ron knew he was never going to retain it all. His hand cramped from the scrolls of parchment he had filled with his messy scrawl, but Godric be damned if he could remember any of it.

 

“Mr Weasley,”  Severus sighed in complete exasperation.

 

He couldn’t teach this imbecile.  It was hopeless. The entire idea was ludicrous at best as it was.  He wasn’t equipped to deal with such idiocy. This. This was exactly the reason he had bloody retired from Hogwarts.  The idea of spending another year as a Professor for ignorant First Years was enough to drive him mad and he quite liked his sanity.

 

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight,”  Ron began slowly. “I’ve got to take the Everlasting Polyjuice every third day.  I’ve got to infiltrate the Death Eaters that nobody seems to be able to find, and ingratiate myself with them as an ally.  Is that right so far?”

 

“Correct,”  Severus growled and pinched his nose.

 

“So why can’t I go home after it wears off?”  Ron scratched his head and stared at his notes while he attempted to put together the pieces.  “Wait, every three days. If I’m taking it every three days, it never wears off. When do I get to go home?”

 

“When the mission is complete,”  Snape supplied slightly softer.

 

“When the mission is complete,”  Ron repeated. “Professor, are you telling me I don’t get to go home until bloody V-Voldemort is dead, sir?”

 

“Ten points to Gryffindor,”  Snape quipped.

 

"Is it too late to change my mind?  I know it sounds really selfish and maybe it is, but it's really hard to wrap my head around it.  It's really confusing," Ron whined. "I mean, we don't know what the Death Eaters are doing. We don't know where they are.  We don't know what their plan is, but someone somewhere thought it would be a grand idea to infiltrate them?"

 

“You have your assignment, Mr Weasley.”  Severus no longer wished to converse with the infuriating man.  It seemed Ronald Weasley was too close to the truth of the matter and that would never do.

 

“I know, that’s not the problem.  I mean, I’m Hermione’s Representative.  Something’s going on there and I’m worried.  She’s being secretive and part of me wonders if it isn’t Malfoy that’s the interested party.  Harry suspected Malfoy had the missing horcrux for ages as it is. It isn’t true, is it?” Ron’s fist curled against the metal desk and his ears tipped red.

 

Severus Snape’s apathetic mask fell firmly into place.  The youngest Weasley boy was surprisingly astute even in his confusion.  Of course, it didn’t make a lick of sense. It was a fool’s errand.

 

The Minister was so anxious to be done with every remaining speck of darkness, he probably would have agreed to dance starkers in the Atrium of the Ministry if Tom Riddle would solemnly swear to report to Azkaban immediately.  Severus knew he was being utterly ridiculous, even in his thoughts, but it didn't change his mind in the least. The Ministry was playing directly into Draco Malfoy's willing hands and zero percent of his manoeuvres had anything to do with the Dark Lord.  

 

“Speak with Mr Potter if you must.”

 

Severus turned to vacate the dreary office as quickly as his feet would allow.  It was the first time in his life that he worried about his ability to hold his tongue.  He’d spent the majority of his life maintaining his silence. It had never truly been an issue before, however, his godson’s antics caused him great distress.

  
  


“Mr Weasley,”  Severus called softly with the slightest trace of regret.

 

"Yes, sir?"  Ron stopped shoving scrolls of parchment into his rucksack and looked at the surly older man in resignation.  He was exhausted and he wasn't positive any progress had been made. He prepared himself for yet another reprimand, but instead, Snape's wand tapped his temple.

 

“ _Dedisco_ ,”  Severus muttered.  “My apologies.”

 

Ron shook his head to clear the slight buzzing sound that filled his ears.  He was doing something important, wasn’t he? It must have been important if he was stuffed into an old Auror office with Severus Snape.

 

“Albania, that’s right,”  Ron nodded and his lips spread into a dopey grin.  “I can’t believe the Minister’s entrusted me with such an important mission.  It’s really a shame Harry can’t take Point, but it would never do to have him be out of country for a year.”

 

“Obviously,”  Severus sniffed.  He really hadn’t the patience to further coddle the boy turned man.  

 

Ron waved congenially and hurried from the Ministry.  He didn’t give Severus Snape another thought. He didn’t see the way his former Professor sighed nor the way his lips compressed into a thin harsh line.  Ron was more concerned with visiting with Harry before he set off for Albania.

 

It was finally his time.  Ronald Weasley, Auror, had finally earned the respect and trust of the Minister for Magic.  He was being sent to Albania to keep an eye on a small group of Death Eaters. It was quite a large responsibility and it made him feel important.

 

As he stepped into the Floo, Ron vaguely wondered if he should have inquired about Hermione.  Would his services still be required as a Representative? Would he be forced to leave his post if the bloody Portkey demanded his attention?  He hoped not. He couldn’t afford to cock this up. This was his chance dammit. It was finally his time. 

 

“Harry?  Are you here?”  Ron called the moment he stepped out of the Floo.  “Please be here,” he muttered. “Please don’t be shagging some random witch in the kitchen again.”

 

Ron tossed his rucksack onto the lumpy green armchair and headed directly for the kitchen.  He didn’t hear any untoward noises, which was a good sign. It was nearly teatime and he was absolutely ravenous.  Snape wasn’t the sort of wizard that believed in interruptions and Ron’s stomach had suffered terribly.

 

“Quick, hide it,”  Harry’s voice carried through the door and Ron was curious, but not curious enough to burst in.  He’d seen enough of naked Harry to last him a lifetime. “In here Ron!”

 

“Hey,”  Ron smiled at Pansy and sat across from her.  “Just got done for the day. These extra lessons are bollocks.  Snape is going to do my head in.

 

“You’re just in time actually, Kreacher’s about to set out tea,”  Pansy smiled kindly, but there was something in her eyes.

 

Harry tossed a tin of biscuits onto the table and focused on the missive in his hand.  He kept frowning and mumbling to himself. Ron happily tore into the tin and waited for Harry to speak.

 

“I should know what this means.  I do know it, I just—“ Harry grumbled and slid the parchment over to Ron.

 

Pansy decided to help Kreacher with the tea.  She didn’t like to interfere in their moments.  She knew Ron was wary of her as it was and she had no desire to incite his temper.  It was still difficult for her to be comfortable around Gryffindors, but it was getting easier.

 

“Are these letters supposed to mean something?”  Ron spoke with his cheeks full of biscuits and sprayed crumbs across the letter.

 

“Yeah, I guess.  I mean, Hermione isn’t the sort of witch to send us a riddle we couldn’t solve.”  Harry ignored the biscuits in favour of the cheese scones Kreacher set near his elbow.

 

“Knowing Hermione as you do,”  Pansy struggled to call the girl Hermione when Granger was always on the tip of her tongue.  “It’s an abbreviation. I don’t know for what, but nothing else makes sense.”

 

Harry grabbed the letter and searched his pockets for a quill or even a pencil.  He chanted the letters under his breath and scratched various words along the margin with his pencil nub.  He hated riddles. She knew that, but Harry also knew it was probably difficult for her to send an owl in the first place.

 

“Muggle Contraception,”  Harry finally breathed and closed his eyes.

 

It was mentioned in passing, just the once.  He was surprised he even remembered it, considering he was distracted by a row with Ginny.

 

_ “She refuses to take the Potion and the last time I cast the Charm she shouted at me.”  Harry was seconds away from punching the fireplace and it was only Hermione’s hand on his shoulder that calmed him. _

 

_ "Harry, we were raised by Muggles.  It's not necessary to rely on magic as often as we do.  Muggles have various ways to prevent pregnancy unless you'd like to be trapped by Ginevra Weasley?"  Hermione teased. _

 

_ “How would I know that?  I haven’t been back since I turned seventeen,”  Harry scoffed. _

 

_ “That’s your own fault.  Let’s see,” Hermione pretended to think and tapped her chin.  “I think pills would probably be best. I don’t see how you could manage the others.  M.C. has made loads of advances and—“ _

 

_ “M.C.?”  Harry interrupted. _

 

_ “Do you ever listen?  Muggle Contraception, now as I was saying—“ _

 

“She’s in trouble, isn’t she?”  Pansy asked and wrapped her arms around Harry’s neck.

 

He leant back in his chair and breathed in the heady scent of some French perfume he’d never remember.  He liked Pansy. He really liked her, maybe he even loved her. The uncertainty in her voice troubled him.  The unsaid words hung between them and Harry shivered.

 

The picture.  The picture that had been enclosed with the letter disturbed him.  Harry had spent an entire hour studying it for proof of tampering. It was inconclusive, at least that’s what he had decided.  As the words on the page suddenly leapt to life, Harry knew the photograph wasn’t doctored.

 

He didn’t know the identity of the wizard between Hermione’s legs and that was probably best.  Harry would have killed him as soon as spoken to him. It was really quite lucky Hermione’s dress had draped over the man’s head.  From the looks of it, Hermione definitely wasn’t complaining and Harry suddenly wanted to cry. He didn’t want to see Hermione like that.  He didn’t want to remember the way her lips moved in the photograph, the way he saw them part and beg.

 

“I don’t know anymore,”  Harry sighed.

  
  
  
  
  


 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedisco = forget


	8. Closer

 

* * *

 

Ron tromped up to the cottage.  It was inconvenient timing that much was certain.  He didn’t have time to ease Hermione’s stresses when he had plenty of his own.  He had to prepare for his bloody mission, but how could he do that when he was whisked away in the midst of a planning meeting?  He only had a few days left, but he couldn’t abandon her, not yet.

 

He closed the door quietly and crept down the corridor to the kitchen.  He watched the way Hermione hummed under her breath while she washed the dishes.  She didn’t look remotely miserable and that raised his hackles considerably. It had been two bloody weeks since she’d had contact with anyone beyond her Gailer and she was fucking humming?  What the bloody hell was going on?

 

Her hair was tied high on her head and when she stretched onto her toes to put away a plate, Ron noted the bruises on her waist.  Her skirt rode low on her hips and under different circumstances, he would have considered it quite alluring. Something was different and he didn’t like it.

 

She turned toward the back door and it was then he saw it.  It had faded considerably, but Ron wasn’t a fool. He recognised a love bite when he saw one.

 

“Mione, is that a fucking love bite?”  Ron snarled.

 

"R-Ron!"  Hermione clamped her hand over Draco's handiwork and gulped.  "I-I wasn't expecting you."

 

“Yeah, that much is obvious.  Are you having a good time with your Gailer?”  Ron sneered nastily and crossed his arms.

 

“It isn’t like that.  It wasn’t like that. You can’t hold it against me.  This wasn’t my idea. None of this was my idea. You and Harry knew the consequences of sending me here and you did it anyway and now you’re angry because I’m not your precious virginal girlfriend anymore?  Whose fault is that?!”

 

Ron wiped his palm down his face and nodded.  She wasn’t wrong. She was never bloody wrong.  It was his fault. It was Harry’s fault. It was the Minister’s fault, hell, it was Voldemort’s fucking fault too, but no one seemed to want to talk about that.

 

“Did he hurt you?  Tell me he didn’t hurt you.”

 

Hermione tossed the dish towel onto the edge of the sink basin and shook her head.  She couldn’t tell him the truth. She couldn’t tell Ron about the pleasure laced with pain.  She couldn’t tell him about the accidental words whispered in the darkness. She couldn’t.

 

“No, he didn’t hurt me.  Did you bring the packet?”  Hermione turned from him in order to hide her blush.

 

Ron patted the pocket of his trousers quietly.  He didn’t know how he was supposed to react to the situation.  He wanted to shout a bit and be really, really angry, but it wouldn’t solve anything.  It never did.

 

“Was it just…the once?”  Ron cringed as he asked and hoped she wouldn’t bellow at him.

 

“Does it matter?”  She jutted her chin and dared him to speak otherwise.

 

“So what then?”  Ron said crossly.  “He comes here, shags you, and leaves?  Is that what you’re telling me without telling me?”

 

Hermione pushed passed Ron and marched directly to the library.  Even after all this time, it still comforted her to be surrounded by books.  The smell of old parchment and the musty sort of scent that accompanied them reminded her of Hogwarts.  It reminded her of when things were far less complicated and everything hurt less.

 

She curled into the white window seat and drew a caftan over her lap.  She knew it would take Ron a bit to find her. He’d wander into the great room and frown first.  Then he’d scowl and hurry into the bedroom before he ever gave the library consideration.

 

“Oh, here you are.”  

 

Ron scowled and dropped onto the leather wingback chair near the hearth.  It was a nice space. It was a little masculine, but that made sense he supposed.  He noted the stack of fresh parchment and ornate quills with interest. He vaguely recalled Hermione’s laments about the lack of writing materials and now she had them.  Curious.

 

“Yes, here I am.”  Hermione pointedly stared out the window.  She noted the roses could use a pruning and sighed.

 

“You didn’t answer me.”

 

Hermione’s head spun toward Ron, yet he didn’t waver.  He stared at her hard and his eyes kept flicking toward her love bite.  He leant forward and braced his elbows on his knees expectantly.

 

“It’s not like that,”  Hermione offered. “We talk, Ron. Is that what you want to hear?  He watches me cook when the bloody elf deigns to allow me to do so.  We share a meal and—“

 

“And what?”  Ron growled. “He snogs you on the sofa?  Perhaps afterwards, he spreads you on the table and eats you for dessert.  Is that what you’re fucking telling me?”

 

“Why are you doing this?”  Hermione hoarsely whispered; humiliation tinged her cheeks, not that Ron noticed.  “It doesn’t mean anything.”

 

“It probably does to him, but you already knew that didn’t you?  And what? You just expect me to accept this is the way it is for the foreseeable future?  If he ever lets you go home, we’ll just get married and forget everything, is that right?” Ron rubbed his eyes and was surprised when they came away wet.

 

“ Don't stop loving me.  I can see it draining out of you.  It's me, remember? It was a stupid thing to do and it meant nothing.  If you love me enough, you'll forgive me.” *

 

Hermione scrambled for purchase and sunk at his feet.  She wasn’t against begging. She couldn’t do this without him.  It sounded so ridiculously needy in her head, but it didn’t matter.  He was the only piece of her life she got to hold onto while captive.  She was afraid of what would happen if he walked away, who she would become.  He couldn’t.

 

“How many times was this stupid thing?  How many times has he touched you and you’ve never told me?  From the beginning perhaps? Does he hold you close when you sleep?  Does he make you forget who he is?” Ron stumbled from the wingback and backed away from her.

 

“Don’t do this, please don’t do this.  You said you loved me. You said you wanted to marry me.”  She refused to cry and perhaps that was what gutted him.

 

“If I didn’t, it wouldn’t hurt this fucking much, Mione,”  Ron shook his head and turned to leave. “I thought I knew.  I thought I could handle it. Percy, of all people, warned me and I shrugged him off.”

 

“Ron!”  Hermione ran down the corridor after him.  He couldn’t leave her, not like this. He’d come back, wouldn’t he?  He wouldn’t just abandon his duties as her Representative, would he?

 

“Harry told me I was stupid for hanging all my dreams on you.  He told me I should live a little and I wish I had. I wish my girlfriend wasn’t a Death Eater toy, but we can’t always get what we want.  Isn’t that what you’re always telling me?” Ron laughed without mirth. “Go on then, Mione. Tell me all about it. Does he make you moan? Or is he the type of bloke that’s only in it for his pleasure?”

 

“Look, I understand you’re angry, hurt even, but—“

 

"But what?!"  Ron cried. "Stop avoiding it.  You need to deal with it, Mione.  I'm standing right here, begging you for answers and you're deflecting, which tells me you've got secrets.  What is it you're not telling me? Wait, y-you enjoy it, don't you? That's it, isn't it? I noticed your parchment and quills, what did you have to do for that?  Do you spread your legs for him for gifts?"

 

“Stop it.”

 

Hermione covered her face to hide the truth in her eyes.  He was right. She willingly laid with Draco Malfoy for promises and gifts.  She was everything he said and Ron’s anger was making it sound much worse than it was.  She had to do what was necessary to survive, didn’t she? All the lines between right and wrong were so utterly blurred and intrinsically grey, she hadn’t an answer.

 

“No, I’m not going to stop it.  Tell me, Mione. Did you shag him in bed?  Or perhaps it was on the settee? Did you scream his name?  Did he properly finish you off?” Ron spread his arms wide and gestured wildly in his anger.

 

“Yes!  Is that what you want to hear?”  Hermione shrieked. “Why is the sex so important?”

 

“Because I’m a fucking troll!”  The spittle from his lips sprayed over her and still, she did not flinch against his ire.

 

“We do everything that people that have sex do, is that what you want to hear?  Will that make you happy, Ron?” The tears ran together with the bogies and she didn’t care enough to wipe them away.

 

“What does he taste like?”  Ron snarled and grasped her by the upper arms.  He squeezed and she winced but refused to cry out.

 

“He tastes like you but sweeter!”  She finally shrieked and grunted when he released her and she struck the ground.

 

Ron backed away from her slowly and set off for the loo.  He couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t be in the same room as her, but he couldn’t leave.

 

He splashed cool water on his face and stared at his reflection.  He looked haggard and a bit broken. His blue eyes were rimmed red and he felt sorry for the man in the mirror.  It couldn’t be him. He didn’t look like that. He wasn’t the sort of wizard that splashed his emotions across his cheeks like a child.  He was better than that, wasn’t he?

 

He felt absolutely awful about the horrid things he’d said to her.  He loved Hermione. He’d always loved her. He’d spent years learning to control his temper and at the first sign of adversity, he exploded.  Ron knew he’d have to apologise to her, but he’d be damned if it was then.

 

He wasted time by rifling through the cupboards and drawers.  He didn’t find much, though the strange bar of black soap intrigued him until it rubbed his jaw and his stubble fell off.  He shuddered and tossed it back into a basket. He didn’t want to know what on earth  _ that _ was for.

 

The tiny phial in the cupboard over the toilet raised his suspicions.  It was odourless, but that wasn't the problem. Why would anyone hide a Potion phial in the bathroom?  Ron slipped it into his pocket and vowed to discuss it with Harry.

 

“Make him leave.”

 

Ron heard Hermione conversing with someone through the door.  He wondered if her Gailer had appeared. He wouldn’t mind a glimpse of the fellow that was sharing her bed.  

 

“Mistress—“

 

“Benedict.  I’ve never asked you for anything.”

 

“Mistress needs to speak to Master.”

 

“How can I do that?”

 

Ron cautiously opened the bathroom door and flinched from the judgemental bulbous eyes watching his every move.  He crept out quietly and fully intended on speaking to Hermione, but the house-elf stood in his way. He was forced to simply watch Hermione leave the room.

 

“Please, do this for me.  I don’t even know if you can hear me.  I feel so stupid.”

 

Ron finally managed to manoeuvre around the insistent Benedict just in time to see Hermione stood on a stool.  He frowned while she spoke into the glass. It took a moment before he discerned the purpose of it all. He felt slightly sick upon the realisation that they were watched.

 

“Mione—“  Ron began.

 

“Make him leave!  I don’t want to talk to him!  I don’t want to see him! Please!”  Her fists pounded the glass in desperation.

 

Ron plucked her from the stool and held her against his chest.  She was still and unwilling to compromise. He had caused her grievous injury and she wouldn’t forgive him easily, Ron knew that much.  It didn’t stop him from smoothing her curls and kissing her temple.

 

“I shouldn’t have said that, any of it.  I was cruel and I know you’re angry. You have every right to be utterly furious with me.  You didn’t deserve my abuses. I think it’d be best if you told your Gailer I shouldn’t visit for a bit.  I think we’ve both got some thinking to do,” Ron sighed and pressed the thick packet of Muggle Contraceptives against the crook of her elbow.

 

He held her face in his hands, but she had closed her eyes.  Her arms hadn’t uncrossed. She hasn’t softened even in the face of his apology.  It bothered him, but she always forgave him in the end. He would simply give her as much time as she needed.  Everything would be right as rain again. He knew it. 

 

The Portkey warmed his pocket and Ron nodded.  He deserved it. Ron released her and studied her sadly.  He didn’t know how long it would be before he saw her again.  He hadn’t the heart to tell her he would begin the Everlasting Polyjuice in a few short days.  It was the last time she’d look at him as Ron Weasley and she hadn’t the slightest idea. 

 

She didn’t watch him leave, not that he expected her to.

 

* * *

 

Pansy sighed heavily for the third time in as many minutes.  Harry tried to ignore her every time she said she was fine. He knew she was bloody lying.  He wasn’t stupid. He’d heard Hermione use that word so many times he knew it meant she was absolutely anything other than fine.

 

“Pansy,”  Harry groaned.

 

“It’s fine.  I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”  She demanded.

 

Harry rolled onto his side and reached for her in the darkness.  He knew it would be difficult for her to adjust, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite this hard.  Ron had asked him if he knew what he was getting into and Harry had refused to admit his trepidation.  He hadn’t the slightest idea what it truly entailed, but dammit, he wanted to try.

 

“I haven’t been asleep!”  Harry laughed in exasperation.  “Go and see to her then.”

 

“I promised I wouldn’t.  She’s in the room right beside us.  I know she’s fine.” Pansy folded her hands over the duvet and tried to relax.

 

"She fell asleep in her pudding.  Teddy ran her ragged, but you're not going to get an ounce of sleep and neither will I unless you go and see for yourself.  I'm begging you." Harry rubbed his face, yet couldn't stifle the yawn of exhaustion.

 

Pansy hemmed and hawed for a handful of moments before she slid from beneath the covers.  She slipped on Harry’s robe and padded down the corridor on tiptoe. Her anxiety wasn’t of her making, but she didn’t know how to explain it to Harry.  He had his own demons and it wasn’t fair to expect him to deal with hers as well.

 

“Mummy?”  the sleepy toddler mumbled.

 

“I’m here.  I’m sorry.” Pansy kneeled beside the bed and kissed her daughter’s forehead.  

 

“Mummy you waked me,”  the brunette blinked her sooty lashes and her bright blue eyes stared up at her mother.

 

It was the only defining feature Dahlia had inherited from her father, at least as far as Pansy could tell.  It struck her every time and she wondered if there would ever come a day when she didn’t see her daughter’s blue eyes and think of the girl’s father.  It hadn’t happened yet, but she hoped.

 

“I’m sorry,”  Pansy whispered and lightly kissed Dahlia’s forehead.

 

“Nan’s not here, mummy.  Go away. I’m sleepy,” Dahlia grunted and rolled into a cocoon of blankets.

 

“What happened?”  Harry asked from the doorjamb.

 

Pansy sniffed and resisted the urge to smooth her daughter's mussed hair.  She wrapped her arms around her waist and squeezed. For some reason, it always helped her stave off the anxiety.

 

Harry knew Pansy was a secretive witch.  Hell, he’d been involved with her in one way or another for years and hadn’t known she had a daughter.  There was a lingering sadness just around her eyes, but he hadn’t wanted to pry. He understood the need for privacy as much as anyone.

 

“My mother,”  Pansy finally said with a hard edge to her voice.

 

Harry knew he wasn’t going to get a lick of sleep and had resigned himself to that fact.  He led her down to the kitchen and set the kettle on the cooker. Everything was better over tea.

 

“I can imagine she wasn’t pleased with her only daughter coming up pregnant.”  Harry yanked the tin of tea down from the cupboard and set out the only mugs that weren’t chipped.

 

“That’s putting it lightly.”

 

Pansy’s hard exterior faded away and for a moment, Harry saw the vulnerable girl she had once been.  She didn’t try to hide from him, which was difficult for her. She’d spent most of her life pretending to be something she was not in order to please her mother, to please her House.  She didn’t have to do that with Harry and it scared her a little. It scared her to know there was at least one person in the world that cared about  _ her _ , not the façade she presented.

 

“It was a lark, I know that now,”  Pansy began while she slowly stirred a swirl of honey into her tea.  “My friends, if you can call them that, dared me to have a drink with him.  I didn’t know who he was. I’d never seen him before or anything. He looked dangerous but in that rugged and windblown sort of way.”

 

_ “Buy me a drink?” Pansy Parkinson leant on the bar and winked sooty lashes with pursed red lips. _

 

_ “Aren’t you a pretty thing,” he teased. _

 

_ Pansy tossed her short dark hair and smirked.  She was pretty. She knew she was pretty and some older wizard with a few scars wasn’t going to embarrass her by stating facts. _

 

_ She tossed back the finger of firewhiskey he offered her and sauntered to the booth in the corner.  She knew he’d follow her. She knew his eyes were focused on the swing of her hips and she was absolutely correct in her assumptions. _

 

_ He slid in beside her and dropped his arm around her shoulders.  It made her feel special. He was obviously older and yet he was interested in her, rather than the reedy blondes giggling at the bar. _

 

_ It was the natural progression of things to have a few drinks and chat.  She didn’t even mind when he dropped his hand to her thigh. It was terribly exciting, especially after the end of her disastrous relationship with Draco Malfoy. _

 

_ “Come back to mine,” he demanded and she couldn’t deny him.  She didn’t want to deny him. _

 

_ She ignored the scandalized glares from her mates and walked out of the pub with his arm tossed around her shoulders.  She felt incredibly adult about it all. He really was terribly attractive and part of her wondered what all the fuss was about.  She was grown enough to discover it, wasn’t she? _

 

_ He led her to a quiet inn at the end of a dark street and she was nervous.  They kept pausing against any hard surface for heated snogs that left the buttons of her blouse askew.  Pansy’s head was fuzzy and she couldn’t stop giggling. She’d never drank so much before and combined with the masculine attention, she was a goner. _

 

_ Everything moved so quickly, it was difficult for her to make sense of it.  One moment she was against the door and his hands were under her blouse. The next moment she was wearing nothing but her knickers as he hovered over her. _

 

_ “Wait,” she gasped and tried to catch her breath. _

 

_ “Come on now, you didn’t come back to mine to chat, did you?” _

 

_ He laughed and pulled off her knickers.  Her skin was so hot and his kisses were so sweet.  His fingers were so gentle on her breasts, between her legs and then he was inside her and she’d never felt so full.  She hissed with every movement and her head struck the headboard with his frenzied movements. _

 

_ “Huh, virgin.  Never would have suspected.  Hmm yeah, just like that,” he grunted and moved faster. _

 

_ His stubble scraped against the delicate skin on her cheek and she didn’t know what to do with her arms.  Was it supposed to be like this? It wasn’t particularly comfortable and all the heat she’d felt dissipated. _

 

_ He pulled away and she was relieved, which felt all wrong.  He turned her onto her stomach and propped her on her knees and then she was bouncing again.  Her ears were filled with the hard slap of him against her arse and his fingers twisted in her hair. _

 

_ His hands dug into her hips and her scalp ached where he had tugged on her dark strands.  She could hear his grunts and buried her face in the pillow beneath her head. It was easier to block it out all that way and she couldn’t stop asking herself ‘what have I done?’. _

 

“Stop, Pansy stop.  Y-you’re crying.”

 

“Why couldn’t it have been you?”  Pansy sobbed. Her hands covered her face.  Her shoulders shook. He wanted to comfort her but every time he tried to touch her, she lashed out at him.

 

“Probably because you hated me back then and the feeling was mutual,”  Harry reheated her tea with a quick Charm and carefully pushed the mug toward her.  “You were mates with Malfoy and we were mortal enemies at that age.”

 

“True,”  Pansy sniffled.  “I’m sure his little obsession with Granger didn’t help matters any.”

 

Pansy sipped her tea and allowed its warmth to spread through her.  She felt better and a little worse. She'd never told anyone the details.  She'd always simply shrugged and said it didn't matter. It was easier than delving into the truth.  The truth was painful and she didn't like to be reminded of the error of her ways.

 

“Wait, what?”  asked Harry.

 

“Oh come on now, you can’t tell me you didn’t know?  It was  _ so _ obvious.”  Pansy dabbed her eyes with the corner of his robe and Harry didn’t even mind the smear of thick kohl that marred the sleeve.

 

“H-how would I know that?  You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”  Harry shook his head to remove the last vestiges of sleep and stared at her hard.

 

“Potter, you really were utterly clueless,”  she laughed. “It was part of the reason our relationship fizzled if you can even call it a relationship.  It was ridiculous. I was horrid, he was distracted and we only did it to make our parents happy, not that they were  _ ever _ happy.”

 

Harry valiantly attempted to rack his brain for specific instances, but he couldn’t recall anything.  Sure, he remembered Hermione’s misplaced interest in the wanker of a blond Slytherin, but she would have worried about anyone.  It was simply her nature, but Malfoy? No, that was something else entirely.

 

“Of course, Draco was completely batty near the end.  I suspect the pressure of his father and the Dark Lord didn’t help matters any.  She just kept being nice to him and Draco being Draco he held onto that much tighter than he should have.  Gods, I haven’t thought about any of that in years.” Pansy smiled softly and reached across the table to rub Harry’s hand.  “Granger didn’t help matters, you know. She visited him after you cursed him in that bathroom.”

 

“S-she did?  I didn’t know that.”  Harry mused. He wondered what else he didn’t know about the underlying sort of fascination between Malfoy and Hermione but Pansy kept caressing his hand.

 

Harry smiled at her hand on his as the early morning sunrays peeked through the small kitchen window.  He knew sleep was out of the question. Dahlia would be awake soon and she was quite a demanding little girl.

 

She disliked hotcakes, she wanted scones.  They had to be warm scones with cranberries, never blueberries, and absolutely drowning in butter.  She liked her milk slightly warm, never cold and she detested sticky hands.

 

Dahlia was shy, a bit quiet really, but she was warming up to him.  Harry knew that Teddy’s presence had helped and he knew Teddy needed playmates his own age.  Of course, Teddy’s overnights at Harry’s interfered with his visits to the Weasleys, which was difficult to explain to Molly.

 

Harry adored Molly, but she was still slightly overbearing.  She was offended by his want to live at Grimmauld Place rather than the Burrow.  She was completely unaccepting of his relationship with Pansy, but he suspected that was Ginny’s influences.  The very idea that Harry was more than capable to live on his own  _ and _ care for Teddy was preposterous if you asked Molly.

 

He hadn’t told Pansy any of it, but he couldn’t avoid it forever.  It would have been so much easier if Hermione were there. Molly would have focused on Hermione and Ron rather than the end of Harry and Ginny and they could have commiserated their misery together, hidden in Arthur’s tool shed.  It would have been wonderful.

 

Instead, Hermione was a Prisoner of War, Merlin only knows where.  Ron had been spending his time torn between the Ministry and the Burrow and Harry was alone.  He didn’t mind the solitude, but he felt better with Pansy and Dahlia. 

 

It gave him hope for the future.  It breathed new life into his weariness and frustrations.  It gave him something else to focus on rather than the loads of paperwork the Minister had buried him beneath.

 

“An invitation has been extended.”  Harry broached the subject carefully. 

 

It was tradition to gather at the Burrow when Charlie visited.  There were usually loads of guests, loads of food, and loads of noise.  It was the perfect time to bring Pansy and Dahlia to the Burrow. Everyone would be on their best behaviour and the Weasleys were never blatantly rude.  They waited until later, just like good witches and wizards should.

 

“Mummy!  I losted Horny!”  Dahlia caterwauled from the top of the stairs.

 

“Uhm Pans, did she just, she didn’t, I mean—“  Harry sputtered.

 

“Perhaps you’d have a bit of luck convincing her it’s an inappropriate name.  I’ve tried my hand,” Pansy sluggishly pushed away from the table. “It’s her stuffed dragon, Harry.”  She rolled her dark eyes and set off to fetch her daughter. “It’s the only gift her father ever sent her.”

 

Dahlia managed the stairs on her own and angrily pushed into the kitchen with her thumb between pouty lips.  She stamped her foot with tears on her cheeks. She was not a morning person and Harry didn’t blame her one bit.  He wasn’t feeling particularly sociable either.

 

“Wanth it,”  Dahlia lisped around her thumb while Harry bent to pick her up.

 

“I’ve got him.  Here you are, my spoilt girl.”

 

Pansy tried to flatten Dahlia’s mussed dark hair, but the ornery toddler refused her mother’s attentions.  She squealed and cuddled into Harry’s chest in order to avoid the insistent hand. Harry smiled, but it fell away slowly and then all at once.

 

“It’s a dragon,”  he whispered as he stared down at the girl.

 

Harry’s eyes were bloody saucers.  He stared at the stuffy held in Dahlia’s arms and recognised the beast that nearly killed him as a boy.  It was a coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. It was utterly and completely laughable, wasn’t it?

 

“Is Horny,”  Dahlia said proudly and crinkled her nose.

 

“H-Hungarian horntail.”

 

“Don’t get her started.  She’s obsessed with them.  It’s ridiculous really. The girl that doesn’t even like sticky hands absolutely adores filthy, dirty dragons.  Whoever would have thought?” Pansy fluffed her dark hair and yawned widely. “You were saying something about an invite?”

 

Pansy yanked the bottle of milk from the back door and set it on the counter.  She stretched onto her toes and pulled a juice glass from the upper cupboard as though she had done it hundreds of times.  By the time she turned back around, Harry had sunk into a chair and rocked her daughter back to sleep.

 

“I know who her father is,”  Harry admitted over the top of Dahlia’s head.

 

He instinctively covered Dahlia’s ears as the cup fell from Pansy’s hands.  He watched the icy cold milk splatter across her bare feet and she didn’t even flinch.  He licked his lips nervously and part of him prayed he was wrong. He wasn’t usually the sort that resorted to prayer but dire circumstances and all that.

 

“What?”  Pansy shook her head.  “How? No, that’s impossible.  I’ve been so careful.”

 

Harry held the toddler tighter and silently vowed to protect her.  He didn’t know every sordid detail, nor did he want to. He didn’t care.  He didn’t care if they had some secret relationship that fizzled. He didn’t care if it was a one-off.  He didn’t care about any of it, but he knew many would once the truth came out.

 

“I love you,”  Harry admitted.  “I do. I love her as well.  I couldn’t love her more if she was my own,”  he laughed lightly. “I don’t know how it happened or when it happened or any of it, really.  I just know it to be true. I wanted you to know that before I said anything else.”

 

Pansy stumbled over the shards of broken glass and winced as a speck pierced the bottom of her foot.  She couldn’t feel it. It didn’t matter. He loved her. He knew about Dahlia and he loved her.

 

“The invitation?”  Pansy inquired so quietly, Harry almost missed it.

 

“The Weasleys,”  he finally said and watched her porcelain skin pale.  “It seems Charlie’s back.”

 

It took Pansy a moment to register the words, to understand what they meant.  Her shaking hand covered her trembling lips and the sob was muffled in the end.  It was difficult to breathe and the harder she tried, the constriction grew until her vision was spotty.  The last thing she remembered was Harry reaching for her and then everything went black.   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bits and pieces of recognisable dialogue borrowed from the film Closer, circa 2004


	9. Habits

* * *

 

She had grown used to the heavy arm draped around her while she slept.  She had grown used to the way he smelled. She had grown used to glasses of wine over dinner and scones with afternoon tea.

 

She no longer flinched at his touch.  She felt lonely when he was gone. She wouldn’t say she missed him, but it was something she couldn’t name.  She didn’t want to name.

 

She couldn’t care for him.  She couldn’t betray everyone she’d ever known by caring for her captor.  It was madness, except, it wasn’t. She remembered those words whispered in the dark.  Sometimes, when he believed her to be asleep, he would repeat them and they didn’t frighten her anymore.

 

She wouldn’t say she believed them, but she knew _he_ believed them.  He honestly believed he loved her and she couldn’t convince him otherwise.  She had tried, once. He had grown so angry she huddled in the corner of the kitchen with her arms over her head, not that he’d struck her.

 

He’d apologised afterwards.  He’d held her in his arms until her trembling ceased while he whispered into her hair.  He’d made love to her that evening and she’d let him. She hadn’t put up the slightest bit of fuss, which she knew pleased him.

 

She’d also learned his body, not that she’d ever tell anyone.  She secretly liked the way he sighed when he sunk into her. She was quite fond of his moans as well.  She’d discovered the weak spot just beneath his ear and had actually left a love bite on his skin. He sported it quite proudly to her chagrin and simply kissed her.

 

It was the first time a kiss hadn’t segued into some sort of hurried shag on the table, the sofa, or even against the wall.  It had changed things between them and that scared her. She felt as though she was losing little pieces of herself, but she was freely giving them away and for what?

 

“You’re lost in thought, aren’t you love?”

 

It was natural to relax in his embrace and it scared her.  She offered her cheek and stilled when his lips grazed about it.  She smiled and it froze on her lips. She was betraying everyone she’d ever known.  She was betraying herself, for a bit of comfort?

 

“Seems I can’t help myself.”

 

“You know,”  Draco teased, “if you had been sorted to Ravenclaw, I probably would have snatched you up ages ago.  Even my father wouldn’t have been able to refute it.”

 

“How long have I been here?  I’ve lost track of the days,”  Hermione asked as she stepped out his warm embrace.

 

There was a chill in the air and she suspected it would snow soon.  She wondered where the time had gone. She hadn’t seen Ron as many times as she thought she would and she didn’t like to broach the subject.  She didn’t like the way Malfoy’s eyes narrowed at her when she mentioned any piece of her old life.

 

She didn’t know when it had succinctly divided that way.  Her old life versus her new life, it was sort of silly. She wouldn’t remain a Prisoner of War for always, not if she had anything to say about it.

 

Despite her seeming acquiescence to the situation, Hermione was still determined to return home.  She was not going to bear Draco Malfoy’s children. She was not going to be forced to choose between her child and her freedom.

 

“I like your hair like this,”  Draco resumed his position behind her and ran his finger along the back of her neck.  “It shows off the lines of your neck.”

 

“Is summer over?”  Hermione closed her eyes and allowed herself to be lulled by his attentions.  “I swear it was spring a few weeks ago.”

 

He didn’t answer her right away and she wondered if her questions had upset him.  She was so incredibly conflicted about everything, she tried to recall when his feelings about anything had become important to her.  Why did his feelings matter? What was wrong with her?

 

She flinched when he draped a heavy cloak over her shoulders.  She suspected he would lead her into the back garden, but he walked toward the front door with his hand firmly clasping hers.  They paused near the wooden bench and he pressed on her shoulders.

 

She sat, albeit slightly confused and held her breath when he knelt.  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth but even if she could speak, she hadn’t the words.  She nearly sagged in relief when he withdrew a box from beneath the bench and withdrew a pair of dark brown boots that were obviously expensive.

 

“Malfoy.”

 

“Just let me.”  He removed a pair of argyle socks from the pocket of his navy blazer and pulled them over her freezing toes.

 

It was an intimate gesture and it touched her more than the shagging.  The sex was based on his needs, but this, this was for her. The boots were the softest leather she’d ever felt against her skin and before she could form a proper thought, she was in his arms.

 

Draco thought she’d remain silent.  She often did when he presented her with anything.  She’d never said a word about the parchment or quills.  She hadn’t remarked on her longer blouses and lightweight cardigans.  She’d smiled when he’d presented her with an assortment of barrettes, but he expected silence.

 

Instead, she had launched herself from the bench and crashed into him.  He wasn’t prepared for it and fell to his bum. His tailbone smarted, but it was worth it.  It was the first time she touched him of her own accord.

 

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the feel of her in his arms.  He wished he had time to properly enjoy her enthusiasm. He was tempted to kiss her, but then she was pulling away and her forehead tapped his.

 

“Thank you.” She whispered so sincerely he could do nothing more than hold his breath.

 

It was an accident.  Gods, she was so tired of thinking those words, but it was true.  He looked so completely astonished and somewhat defenceless by her simple thanks.  He reminded her of her own vulnerability and she kissed him.

 

They were both surprised and Hermione looked frightened by her actions.  She pulled back nearly immediately but his lips followed hers. She straddled his hips and her hands stroked across his slightly rumpled grey button down as their mouths fused together.

 

She liked kissing him.  She liked it when it wasn’t a means to an end, when it was just their breaths mingled together.  She liked it when his tongue sought entrance and he tasted her. She wasn’t supposed to like it, but in that moment, she couldn’t remember why.

 

“Master,” Benedict timidly interrupted.

 

“Fucking figures,” Draco lamented against her bee-stung lips.  “Gods, I’d love to have you, right now, just like this. Wish there was time.  I could finish you off if you like?”

 

He set her beside him and elegantly rose to his feet.  She hated that about him. He never seemed to be clumsy, not like her, not like Ron.  Everything he did was completely natural and was beautiful to watch.

 

“No, that’s alright.  I’ll be fine.” Hermione accepted his hand and lurched to her feet with a small grunt.

 

“Hmm,  no, I don’t think so.  I don’t like the idea of sending you off as anything other than completely satisfied.  Lift your skirt,” he ordered. “Be a good girl, Granger. Good girls get rewarded and you like to be rewarded don’t you?”

 

The sticky sweet tone of his voice had her knickers soaked through before she could even consider lifting her skirt.  She had adored it the moment she laid eyes on it. The splashes of red and black flowers drew her eye immediately. She also noted the lack of daringly high slits and wondered why he had altered her wardrobe, but then he was shoving it over her hips and nothing else mattered.

 

“Sending me off?” Hermione managed to sputter as he pushed her against the door.  “Why would you be sending me, oh gods, off? Are you, are you freeing me?”

 

It was insanely difficult to concentrate with his fingers slick between her thighs.  The maddeningly soft strokes in and out were mind-altering and her head fell back. She winced, but it didn’t stop the moans.  Her moans. She didn’t know who she was anymore, but she knew she wanted to chase the high until the world burned. She was addicted and it was his fault.

 

“I couldn’t set you free even if I wanted to.  I don’t, mind you. I’d rather like to keep you,” Draco crooned into her ear and spun hard little circles against her delicious bundle of nerves.

 

Her orgasm crept up on her and he smiled, the way he always did when she came.  Her pouty lips were opened in mild surprise and he did so like the way she sighed ‘ _oh, oh, oh_ ’ and trembled against his hand.  He memorised those moments, savoured them.

 

“I don’t see that happening,” Hermione quipped as she tucked her white ruffled blouse into the wide black waistband of her flower printed skirt.  “I’m going to clean up and—“

 

“No, you’re not.  You’re going to go with the knowledge that you came for me stuck to your thighs.  If you argue with me, if you refuse, I’ll send you in a fucking nightie, do I make myself clear?”

 

Hermione’s lips fused together, but she knew better than to barb him.  Every ounce of her being wanted to lash out at him, would have lashed out at him, if she could have escaped his clutches.  In the few clear moments after her earth-shattering release, she recalled the strong witch she used to be. She missed that woman, missed her desperately, but for now, she had to play his game.  She had to survive.

 

“I understand,” Hermione admitted begrudgingly.

 

“Good girl, come on then.”

 

Draco offered his hand and she took it without a second thought.  When had it become so easy to accept his affections? She wanted to thoroughly berate herself but she couldn’t because she was flinching from the sting of the wards while he led her directly through the front door.

 

She eagerly glanced about, desperate for any inclination of her current surroundings, but she recognised nothing.  It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was beautiful.

 

“You were serious?”

 

“Did you think I forgot?” Draco teased and swooped down to steal a ridiculously sweet kiss.  “Happy Birthday, love. They’re expecting you.”

 

“Who?” She asked nervously, but his reply was lost in the wind as her shackle-cum-Portkey whisked her away.

 

* * *

 

Molly Weasley bustled about her home the way she always did.  She magically stoked the fire and set the dishes to wash while she made sure everything was just so.  It wasn’t every day her wayward son came home for a visit and she planned to make the best of it.

 

It had been just over two years since the last time and her dragon wrangling son had been considerably withdrawn.  She hoped it had nothing to do with that insufferable bint that tried to trap him. Merlin knew Molly had plenty of experience with those sorts of witches.  She would walk through fire to ensure they didn’t latch their claws into her sons.

 

It was bad enough Bill had married that part-Veela girl.  She’d had such high hopes for him, but Bill had adamantly refused to consider a local witch.  No, he preferred the uptight, snooty foreigner. Molly tolerated Fleur, but it was difficult to paste a smile on her lips.

 

Fleur had stolen her son away and Molly had grandiose plans.  She didn’t think there was anything wrong with expecting her sons to remain home.  It wasn’t too much to ask for them to consider living at the Burrow during the first few years of marriage.

 

She was a good mother.  She prided herself on being a good mother.  She loved her children fiercely and there was absolutely nothing wrong with that.  It wasn’t her fault that her eldest son chose a foreigner. She tried to warn him away.  It wasn’t her fault that Charlie ran off to Romania to roll in dragon dung rather than marry a respectable witch.  It certainly wasn’t her fault that her beloved Ron doted upon a Muggleborn either. Molly had done the best she could and it wasn’t enough, obviously.

 

If only Arthur hadn’t been so completely obsessed with Muggles.  Their lives could have turned out so differently. He could have ascended in the ranks at the Ministry and held a respectable position.  A position suitable for their worth. It saddened her to think of it, really.

 

Molly loved Arthur, but she did feel slightly disgruntled.  Their home was warm and cosy, but it wouldn’t be written about for the ages.  They had a good life, an average life, but she wanted more. She’d always wanted more and now, now it was entirely too late so she laid her deepest desires on her children, like any mother would do.

 

“Mum,” Ginny whined, “it’s so early.  He’s not going to be here for hours.”

 

Ginny shuffled into the kitchen and slumped at the long dining table.  She wasn’t in the mood to deal with her mother’s excitement. She wasn’t in the mood for any of it.  She wanted to curl up in bed and lament her misfortune.

 

“Don’t start Ginevra.  It isn’t my fault Harry cast you aside,” Molly snapped while she waved a wooden spoon.  “I told you not to push him. I told you to give him time and now you’ve lost him. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

 

She plunked a bowl of thick porridge before her youngest child and sniffed.  She was quite put out with Ginny. Molly had done her best, dammit. She’d orchestrated moments for Harry and Ginny to be alone together.  She’d kept her snide remarks to herself.

 

She’d splurged on pretty dresses and taught Ginny everything she knew.  Of course, Ginny had ruined it with her insecurities. So what if Harry wanted to shag a few witches before settling down?  It’s simply what was done and as long as he didn’t contract some horrific Muggle disease, what did it matter? Ginny should have been thankful he shagged _her_ rather than pressing for commitment.

 

Harry wasn’t raised in the Wizarding World and despite his endeavours to end Voldemort, there was still much he didn’t know.  The acceptance of tradition came with time as did most things, but Ginny was entirely too impatient for her own good. Who on earth was going to have her now?

 

“Mum, enough.  We’ve gone over this.  I swear you’re more broken up about it than I am.” Ginny sneered at her porridge and sighed.  “Harry’s a nice bloke, a gentleman even, but I think you wanted us together more than we wanted to be together.  You’ve seen the Prophet, he looks really happy with Pansy. Shouldn’t you be happy that he’s happy considering you’ve declared yourself his second mum and all?”

 

Ginny had a point, not that Molly would admit it.  She was a stubborn woman, a proud woman and it wasn’t often that she admitted her faults.  It wasn’t a day for such things anyway. It was a day for Charlie and that’s all that mattered.

 

“You have the right to happiness as well,” Molly called over her shoulder.  “Have you been seeing anyone? Anyone that I would know? Prospects on the horizon?”

 

Ginny groaned and would have buried her head in her arms if her porridge weren’t present.  Instead, she poked the thick muck with her spoon and stared at the table. She missed Harry, but it wasn’t the heartbreak that gutted her.

 

It was easy with Harry, perhaps it was too easy.  She’d known him nearly all her life and the heart pounding butterflies in her stomach had waned before she’d even dated him.  Their lovemaking was routine and hell, everything was routine. She was too young to fall into such a rut and yes, it hurt her that he’d left, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

 

“I’ve decided to take some time for myself, mum.  I’m really focusing on the Harpies and it’s fantastic.  I wish you’d come to a game.”

 

“Pish tosh, I find the sport entirely too violent for my tastes.” Molly shook her greying head and wiped her hands hastily on her dingy white apron.

 

“Look at that, something you’ve got in common with Hermione,” Ginny teased.

 

She noted the way the spoon twisted in her mother’s hand and also the way Molly’s knuckles whitened.  It seemed her mum wasn’t particularly fond of Hermione either, not that it should be a surprise. Molly wasn’t fond of anyone.

 

Ginny had never been so thankful to hear her brothers clamouring down the stairs as she was that morning.  She knew their bellows and shouts would distract Molly enough for her to slip back upstairs for a bit of peace and quiet.  Charlie would be arriving soon and it would only get louder, so she wished to revel in silence while she could.

 

Half a dozen hours later and the Burrow was nearly filled to the brim with guests.  Molly fretted over the food and spent half her time chasing children out of the kitchen.  Her cheeks were rosy and bright. She was deliriously happy until she felt the change in the wards.

 

She was instantly on guard.  She’d already lost one child to that blasted War, she’d be damned if she lost another.  Part of her secretly blamed Harry Potter, but she would never voice such things. She cared about Harry, but he hadn’t been the Saviour the Wizarding World had lauded him to be, which was quite the disappointment.

 

“Molly, calm down,” Arthur spoke in soothing tones as he gripped her wrist.

 

Molly hadn’t realised she had drawn her wand and shook her head.  She shoved it into the front pocket of her apron and pasted a bright smile on her chapped lips.  She didn’t need Arthur to tell her to calm down, she was perfectly calm. There was absolutely nothing wrong with remaining on guard.  Constant Vigilance wasn’t just something that was said, it was something that was done, dammit.

 

Her old eyes squinted as she peered out the window and she frowned.  From the looks of it, the woman was in quite the hurry. When the wind pulled her hair loose, Molly gasped in recognition and hurried to the door.

 

“Molly,” Hermione breathed.

 

She looked different and Molly never did appreciate change.  There was something around the eyes, a flush on her cheeks, something, not that she could name it, but it was there.  This wasn’t the same woman she’d seen months ago and why was that?

 

“Hermione!” Molly swept Hermione into a bone-crushing hug and patted her cheek affectionately.  “How _have_ you been?  You never come to visit anymore!  It’s been ages. Almost makes me think you don’t love us.”  Molly teased.

 

“Sorry,” Hermione laughed lightly.  “I’ve just been uh busy.”

 

The lame statement hung in the air and while Molly’s lips pursed, Hermione stared at the floor.  Yes, there was definitely something askew. She watched the girl hug Arthur and she didn’t much like the way Hermione breathed him in.  It was unseemly and bordered on inappropriate.

 

“The boys are in the back doing what boys do.  Make yourself at home. Charlie’s Portkey should arrive within the hour.”

 

Hermione nodded in a distracted sort of way and hurried toward the back door.  It wasn’t like her to rush, especially when there was work to be done. Molly huffed in irritation and set the potatoes to peel as it was obvious she wouldn’t receive a lick of help.

 

“Is Harry here?” Hermione asked with her hand on the door handle.

 

“Of course, he’s out back with the boys and his _girlfriend_ ,” Molly scoffed.

 

“Girlfriend?”

 

“Yes!  It’s actually refreshing to see that I’m not the last to know everything.  I’m sure he can tell you all about it himself.”

 

Hermione tucked her dark green scarf into her cloak and stepped into the brisk air.  She knew she should have stayed behind to help Molly, but she didn’t want to spend her time confined.  She wanted to breathe in as much freedom as possible before she was whisked back to captivity.

 

“Hermione!” Ron and George waved from their brooms and whooped with glee.

 

Hermione wanted to cry.  She wanted to sink into the grass and let the emotions wash over her until she was completely spent, but she couldn’t do that.  The secretiveness involved in being a Prisoner of War was taking its toll on her and she wondered if Draco knew that.

 

Part of her couldn’t help but be suspicious.  He’d been exceedingly kind and to remember her birthday was quite a feat.  There were moments, as there always were, when she was wary of his attentions, but they were few and far between.

 

She supposed she had much to do with that as well.  It had been months locked away with only Draco Malfoy and a surly house elf for company, not to mention sporadic visits from Ron.  She couldn’t remain stubborn, argumentative, and angry forever.

 

Ron nearly knocked her off her feet with his exuberant hug, not that she minded.  It didn’t take long for her to be surrounded by the family she held dear and it was nearly enough to set her to tears.  She couldn’t cry, not then. Later, after she had returned to the cottage and Draco had fallen into slumber, that’s when she would allow herself to mourn.

 

“Hermione,” Harry said as he pushed through the horde of happy Weasleys.  “You’re here. Did he—“

 

“No, it’s only for a few hours, but it’s better than nothing.” She shrugged and silently begged him to leave it be.  “Why is that I’m the last to hear of your girlfriend?” Hermione chided softly as the Weasleys scattered.

 

“It’s not like I could owl you,” Harry snapped bitterly.  “Not that it’s your fault or anything. I owe you an apology.  I shouldn’t have, we shouldn’t have done that to you. You should have had a choice.”

 

“You and I both know I would have gone anyway,” Hermione said sadly.

 

She walked with Harry toward the vegetable patch and away from the raucous game of Quidditch that had erupted.  She wasn’t in the mood for observing. She watched to catch up with her closest friends while she could.

 

“Is he, I mean, you’re—“ Harry scratched his head and stumbled over his words.  He didn’t know how to phrase his questions without sounding callous.

 

“Can we not talk about it?  I’m fine. I’ll be fine as long as you keep me in packets.” Hermione smiled kindly and he loped his arm around her.  “So about this girlfriend—“

 

“Wait,” Ron interrupted as he hurried to catch up.  “Are we just going to pretend everything is fine? We’re not even going to discuss the fact the Order still hasn’t received the you-know-what?”

 

Hermione stiffened and wished she had a hat to cover her ears in the chill.  She squeezed her eyes closed and took a shallow breath. She knew why the Order hadn’t received the last horcrux.  She expected it really, but now it was a matter of explaining it to Ron. It wouldn’t be easy, but nothing was these days.

 

“I think,” she started while she met his curious blue eyes, “that he is waiting until I fall pregnant.  He hasn’t said it in so many words, but he’s alluded to _keeping_ me.  I can’t begin to tell you how thankful I was that you figured it out, Harry.  I really haven’t any other option and I really don’t want to, I mean I—“ Hermione faltered.

 

“That won’t happen,” Harry spat.

 

“There’s a plan in place,” Ron said excitedly.  “I’m off to Albania in a few days and then a team of Aurors is going to apprehend Draco Malfoy.”

 

“M-Malfoy?  Why would they do that?” Hermione pushed away from Harry and there was a tightness in her chest she didn’t much care for.

 

“It’s part of the mission is all,” Ron shrugged happily albeit completely unwilling to share more.  He was entrusted with a mission all on his own and not even Harry could say that. He was quite proud of his accomplishments and no one was going to ruin it for him.

 

“What happens to him?” Hermione avoided a garden gnome and leant against the crumbling stone wall.

 

“Eh magically induced coma, I wager.”

 

“Is it safe?”  

 

“Are you worried about _him_?”

 

Hermione looked to Harry, but he seemed just as confused as Ron.  They wouldn’t understand. She could never tell them that Malfoy was her Gailor, not even when she went home.  They would never forgive her.

 

“It could be dangerous,” she said.  “I know you hate him and all, but he is a human being.  I’m sure he doesn’t want to do half the things he’s been—“

 

“It’s alright, Mione,” Ron ambled to her side and kissed her temple.  It felt different. It felt wrong almost. “I’m not going to pretend I understand, but that’s just who you are.”

 

“That’s surprisingly mature of you, Ron.” Hermione leant into his broad chest and breathed in the homey scent of homemade soap and lawn clippings.  It didn’t stir her blood. It didn’t do anything, anything at all.

 

“Yeah so, I’m dating Pansy.  She’s got a daughter and I think Charlie’s her father.”  Harry stared at his best mates and dared them to argue with him.

 

He waved at a pretty brunette witch that seemed to shrink into the shrubberies.  The small child at her side wrenched free and ran toward Harry. Hermione’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull when he smiled and squatted in the dirt.

 

Harry held his arms wide and the little cyclone smacked directly into his chest with a loud shriek.  She wrapped her tiny arms around his neck and struck his back with her stuffy. She was curious about the brown haired woman behind her Harry and glared at Hermione accordingly.

 

Pansy made her way through the grasses much slower than her daughter.  She was terribly nervous. She’d already been on the receiving end of a particularly nasty scowl from the Matriarch but the real test was reacquainting with Hermione Granger.  Pansy knew if Hermione disapproved, her relationship with Harry was over.

 

“Dahlia, this is my very good friend Hermione Granger.  Hermione, this is Dahlia. She’s nearly, hmm I think I’ve forgotten.  How old are you now?” Harry tapped Dahlia’s nose until the little beauty smiled.

 

“Hi,” Dahlia waved, “I three.”  She giggled and held up four fingers.

 

“Really?  Are you three?  My, you’re nearly an adult!” Hermione waggled her fingers at the girl and wondered how on earth she’d never known Pansy Parkinson had a daughter.

 

Pansy shoved back her shoulders and held her head high as she approached the Golden Trio.  It eased her anxiety to see Harry’s eyes soften and watch the way he interacted with Dahlia.  The wide smile when she crept closer certainly didn’t hurt either.

 

“When is her birthday?  You’ve never told me,” Harry‘s smile flickered and the wind whipped his homespun scarf into Dahlia’s face, which elicited a giggle.

 

“I didn’t think about it.  I’ve never made a fuss and my mother—“ Pansy shrugged lamely and suddenly felt very out of place.

 

She knew it was a terrible idea to wear her stylishly elegant overcoat to the Burrow.  The Weasleys were wearing their Molly-made sweaters and homespun scarves and she was wearing the latest fashions from Paris and Milan.  No wonder Molly hated her on sight.

 

“It’s nice to see you, Pansy.  It’s been awhile,” Hermione smiled kindly and Pansy’s stiff posture relaxed slightly.  “I also think we’re wearing the same boots. How strange is that?”

 

Pansy stepped into Harry’s warm embrace and stared at familiar brown leather boots.  They were her gift to herself for resisting the urge to hex the Muggle designer that grabbed her arse.  They were extraordinarily expensive, comfortable, and worth every bloody pound.

 

“I didn’t know you travelled to Milan,” Pansy said quietly.  “I went on a short holiday with an old friend a few months ago.  He picked up a pair for his girl and after I felt them, I knew I had to have them.”

 

Pansy stared at the Muggleborn witch with hard, yet intuitive eyes.  Harry and Ron were chattering quietly about Quidditch scores and the best brooms, which afforded Pansy the opportunity to discern the truth.  She might not have all the particulars, but it was glaringly obvious to her, Draco Malfoy had gifted Hermione Granger those bloody boots.

 

“They were a gift, it’s my birthday,” Hermione whispered and quickly looked away.

 

“Speaking of gifts!” Ron interrupted loudly with red tipped ears and a twinkle in his eyes.  “Have you given any further thought to marrying me?”

 

“Uhm well actually, I have.  I’m not against being engaged per se, but I don’t want to attempt to marry while I’m a Prisoner of War.”  Hermione wasn’t positive she wanted to marry him at all, but she couldn’t tell him that, not now. It was her birthday and she didn’t want to spend the limited time she had with them arguing.

 

“I can accept that.  I’ve actually uhm, got a ring and everything.  I’ll bring it next visit. I’ll do it right, swear it.” Ron looked at her with that quiet sort of pleading and it reminded her of a sad little puppy dog.

 

“Don’t swear,” Hermione scoffed.  “Come on then, based on the shouts I’d wager Charlie’s arrived.”

 

Hermione didn’t want to further her conversation with Pansy.  She didn’t want to discuss engagements or weddings with Ron either.  Harry was obviously distracted by Dahlia and for the first time, she felt alone while surrounded by those she loved most.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. Harsh Breaths

 

 

* * *

 

The chaos of Weasleys combined with her limited freedom was exponentially overwhelming for Hermione Granger.  She had missed so much and nothing at the same time. It seemed nothing ever changed at the Burrow and for that, she was thankful.

 

Molly was still ridiculously overbearing.  She still handed out tight smiles as though they were genuine.  She still filled plates with reckless abandon and everyone still tolerated it.  It was irritating and comforting at the same time. 

 

Of course, the judgemental glances weren’t exclusively dealt to Fleur as Hermione felt more than a few tossed in her direction.  Logically, it made sense, she mused. She hadn’t been to the Burrow since Ron’s birthday and even then, the tension between them was high.  Hermione gathered that Molly Weasley didn’t believe anyone was good enough for her sons.

 

She accepted a plate overflowing with bits of meat and potato with a small smile.  Molly knew Hermione detested peas and the small pile of them directly next to the mash was a subtle barb that didn’t go unnoticed.  Hermione looked across the table at Harry and he rolled his eyes and shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ sort of manner, while Pansy looked utterly revolted at the pools of brown gravy that dripped off the edge.

 

“It’s easier if you ignore it,”  Hermione whispered and Pansy flashed her a grateful smile.

 

Dahlia whimpered quietly beside her mother and pushed her plate away angrily.  She didn’t like it when her food touched. She didn’t like carrots. She didn’t like peas.  She most certainly did not like beets and where on earth was her meat?

 

“Mummy, I needs Horny,”  Dahlia sniffled and the entire table went silent.

 

“I told you not today, bug.”

 

Pansy’s shaky reprimand carried and Molly harrumphed her displeasure.  Harry stared hard at the dragon wrangling Weasley that was conveniently sat as far from Pansy and Dahlia as possible.  He liked the way Charlie squirmed, it made him feel quite vindicated for his fury.

 

“I’ve got it,”  Harry interjected.  Pansy sputtered as Harry stood and retrieved a miniature stuffy from his overcoat pocket.  A simple flick of his wand and Horny the Hungarian Horntail was his usual self, to Dahlia’s delight.  “Here you are, bug.”

 

“It’s still an inappropriate name,”  Molly sniffed.

 

“Yeah, it is, but since her father wasn’t around to explain such things to her—“  Harry let the statement hang in the air and the condemnation was enough for Charlie to push from the table and bolt out the back door.

 

“That was unnecessary.”  Molly frowned heavily and her angry lips pursed so harshly she looked a bit like a goblin.

 

“Well, it’s obvious  _ you _ were never going to encourage him to accept his responsibilities.  Makes me wonder whose idea it was to send Dahlia a stuffed dragon in the first place,”  Harry snarled. “I mean, it’s obvious he’s not the least bit interested in acknowledging his kin.”

 

“I did it,”  Arthur muttered.  “It was only right.  I’ve owled with Mrs Travers numerous times over the years.  Your mother is, well she’s—“

 

“Obnoxious,”  Pansy easily supplied.  “She never told me, not that I’d expect her too.  She detested the fact that I had my daughter. She’s spurned me for ages and there was the incident when she attempted to sell her to the highest bidder.  We don’t speak.”

 

“Mrs Travers is your mum?”  Gravy dripped from Ron’s lip while they flapped in horror.  “I didn’t know that. How did I not know? When did Mrs Parkinson marry bloody Travers?”

 

“Fourth year, Ron,”  Hermione lectured. “There was an announcement in the Prophet, don’t you remember?”

 

“Well see, I was a bit busy trying to help Harry not to die and all so no, sorry to disappoint.”  Ron’s snooty affectation lightened the mood considerably.

 

“Noted,” Hermione said primly.

 

“Well, it’s all said and done now, what do you expect him to do?”  Molly had half a mind to go after her precious son and comfort him in the face of vipers.

 

“I don’t think Pansy expects him to do anything.  She doesn’t need him. She never did. It was never about  _ her _ .  As an orphan, I have absolutely no issue with kicking his arse.  Remus nearly left Tonks, did you know that? Course not, you were never very fond of him, were you?  I was a bit harsh with him, but you know what he did? He went back to his bloody wife. Teddy’s an orphan but he’s got Andromeda, he’s got me and Dahlia has me too.  She should have had all of you, but you shirked your responsibility. It was easier to pretend Charlie would never when he fucking did.” Harry’s fist struck the table hard enough for the gravy to swim over the side of its crock.  “I’m going home and I’m taking my family with me. Hermione, would you like to come?”

 

Harry spoke before he thought, which was often an issue.  The realisation of his words struck him at the same moment the tears pricked Hermione’s eyes.  The sea of eyes that studied them definitely didn’t help matters.

 

“I-I wish I could,”  she said sadly. “I haven’t got much time left anyway.  It’s alright, Harry. It wasn’t a very memorable birthday anyway.”

 

“How much time have you got?”  Ron clumsily stood yet managed to catch his chair before it clattered to the floor.  

 

She waited until he was behind her before she stood.  It used to be comforting to be held in his arms. It used to feel like home.  It used to be her favourite place on earth, besides the Hogwarts library. It used to be so many things, but everything was ruined.

 

“Half past the hour I’d wager.”

 

Ron gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs and kissed her.  It was sweet as far as kisses went. It was comforting, but it didn’t light a fire in her belly.  Hermione wanted it to. She wanted it to be the way it was, but nothing would ever be the same.

 

She’d marry Ron.  She’d learn to be happy.  She’d have rowdy red-haired children.  She’d carve out a lovely career at the Ministry.  She’d do everything she’d always planned and she’d pretend.  She was good at that. Passion was overrated anyway.

 

“What are you going on about?”  George, the ever quiet George, finally piped up and Hermione’s heart lurched.

 

Ron dragged Hermione into the sitting room without preamble.  He gently pushed her into the red plaid armchair and knelt at her feet.  He ignored his mother’s gasp of horror and even the timid toddler chatter between Victoire and Dahlia.

 

He grasped her boot in his hand and pulled down the zipper.  The Minister might have sworn them to secrecy. They might have vowed to never speak of the calamity that had befallen their oldest friend.  They might have many things, but that didn’t mean they shouldn’t show.

 

Hermione looked to Pansy.  The boots were enough for the Slytherin to be suspicious and Hermione knew it.  As her brown leather boot was dropped to the floor and her calf was held in Ron’s hand, she blinked slowly as the ornate silver shackle was revealed.  Pansy covered her mouth with both hands, not that anyone noticed, except Hermione and that’s all she needed. Hermione needed  _ one _ person to know the identity of her captor and now she had it.

 

“I know what that is!”  

 

Suddenly, Molly Weasley was a clucking hen filled with compassion, but she didn’t fool Hermione.  The Muggleborn witch accepted the smothering hug and ridiculously loud sniffles in her ear without reaction.  She knew Molly was probably secretly pleased. It saved Ron from her clutches and that’s what Molly had always wanted.

 

“You poor girl,”  Molly sobbed. “Kingsley was behind this, wasn’t he?  Of course, he was. No wonder you’ve been gone for ages.  You’re not—“

 

“No.  We made sure of that much,”  Ron snarled. “I’ve got a plan.”

 

Ron’s tone brooked no arguments and for once, his mother remained silent.  He shared a heavy glance with Harry and quickly stood. Hermione had to admit it was pleasant to have her boys defend her so voraciously.

 

The commotion upset the two little girls, who were so cheerfully babbling moments before, and started them crying. Victoire searched for her father.  She didn’t understand why everyone was upset, but she needed his comfort more than she needed to understand. 

 

“My Daddy,”  Victoire Weasley sniffed.  She avoided her mother’s insistent hands and clung to her father’s leg as she looked in the direction of her new friend. “Where you daddy?”

 

Pansy looked close to tears, but Dahlia was entirely too busy thinking on the matter to pay her mother any mind.  She inspected the Weasleys carefully and grunted angrily when Charlie stepped inside. She watched Bill pat Victoire’s back and it reminded her of Harry.  After all, he did remember her Horny when her mummy forgot.

 

“Over dere,”  Dahlia pointed and Harry chuckled.

 

“That settles that then,”  he said a bit pompously.

 

Hermione smiled and she felt the shackle tingle.  She hadn’t much time. She didn’t want to say goodbye.  She didn’t want to see the pity in their eyes. It was better this way.

 

She slid out of the armchair while Harry and Ron whispered about strange phials and walked to the front door.  Despite their differences, this was her family. Her parents had been lost to her ages ago and this, this was perfect.  Hermione’s dark eyes washed over every Weasley and she drank in the familiar smells of fresh baked goods with a smile painted on her lips.  

 

She managed to snag her cloak from the back of her chair and slipped into it.  It would have been a terrible shame to leave it behind. Hermione looked to Pansy one last time.  She lifted her hand in a silent wave and smiled at her boys. Pansy nodded and Hermione knew they were in good hands, as she felt the pull and the Burrow faded away.

 

* * *

 

The crunch of shattered glassware beneath his dulled black shoes should have alerted him something was wrong.  He slipped on the shards, yet continued his journey. He would discover the culprit. He would also ply the wizard with Calming Draughts and soothing words, but he had to find the man first.

 

He fell to his knees, the unyielding marble step smarted against his weary bones and the familiar sticky stench of firewhiskey assault his large nose.  The sting of spirits blended with his sliced skin and he winced. He’d dealt with much over the years, but this level of destruction wasn’t the usual recourse.

 

The East Wing was eerily silent and he pushed on the library’s double doors, yet they refused to budge.  He ascertained there was furniture wedged against it and groaned. He vehemently hoped the small collection of priceless tomes had not been damaged in the rampage.

 

Pieces of scorched parchment spun recklessly overhead when he finally pushed into the library.  He was thankful the main library had remained untouched, but this one was disastrous. The shelves were splintered and the deep green carpeting was covered with many a broken spine.

 

“Fie upon your manners,”  he snarled and stepped over the remains of a wooden chair.*

 

“Silence!  I will have silence!”  came the resounding answer, just as he knew it would.*

 

“Uch, Draco, you smell like a pub.”

 

Severus glowered over the obliterated wizard who laid prone on the floor.  His cheeks were speckled with droplets of blood and his knuckles were terribly bruised.  His blond hair was streaked with pink, which could only be from the blood that still marred his palms.

 

“Do you think she fucked him?”

 

“Draco, it’s time to get you cleaned up.”  Severus hefted Draco to his feet, but the intoxicated wizard merely crumpled once more.

 

“I don’t want to.  Answer me. Do. You.  Think. She. Fucked. Him?”  Draco accentuated every word with a light slap to his Godfather’s calves.

 

“I don’t make it habit to contemplate Weasley mating rituals,”  Severus sneered.

 

“She said she loved me,”  Draco’s anger had segued to tears so quickly, Severus hadn’t expected it.  The hoarse choked sobs were not in his forte. “She said she loved me back, but Benedict, Benedict found these little packets stuffed beneath the paillasse.  Is it, is it still a paillasse if it’s feathers rather than straw? I don’t know. I don’t care.”

 

Draco rocked to his knees and crawled across the tattered pages he’d torn from numerous books and searched for his bottle of firewhiskey.  He hadn’t finished it. It was there. It was simply a matter of finding it.

 

“She hid something from you and it’s turned you into a snivelling—“  Severus tossed his hands into the air and wondered when he had become the voice of reason.  “Get up! Pull yourself together!”

 

“Contraception, Severus.  Muggle Contraception no less, because what other choice did she have?  Apparently, despite the fact she  _ said _ she loved me back, she doesn’t.”  Draco fiddled with the neck of his firewhiskey bottle, his fingers sluggish and unresponsive.

 

“There are worse things than unrequited love, Draco.”  Severus pinched the bridge of his nose and chanted Potion ingredients under his breath in order to contain his rising temper.  “What did you expect her to do? When has she ever been the sort of woman to accept her circumstances without a bit of a fight?”

 

“She said she loved me back!”  Draco bellowed.

 

“What can you do?”  Severus said kindly, only to be shoved into the remnants of shattered bookshelves.

 

“Just wait, Severus.  You’ll see.”

 

Draco hurled the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey into the dwindling fire.  He hissed in satisfaction as the flames rose and licked his mother’s favourite Oriental rug.  He might be incredibly intoxicated and bordering on reckless, but he had a plan; the perfect plan and it was time to bring it to fruition.

 

“Give it time, Draco.  You never know what may happen over the course of her confinement.”

 

Severus righted an armchair and sat upon the cracked black leather.  It was always better to placate Draco Malfoy while seated. He didn’t take it as a personal affront or an intimidation tactic if Severus lowered his guard enough to sit.  It was peculiar, but Severus was fond of keeping every situation copasetic if possible.

 

“Course of her confinement?”  Draco snarled angrily. “Course of her confinement?  Seriously? Are you being fucking serious right now? I’ve fucking had her since Lucius’ birthday.  I’ve had her for fucking  _ months _ .  MONTHS!  I haven’t any more fucking time to give her.  Enough is enough.” Draco wavered on his feet and smashed his knee into a toppled accent table.  “BENEDICT!”

 

Severus observed the sweat soaked wizard shriek at such decibels his ears began to ache.  He was at a loss. He didn’t know how it was possible to protect Ms Granger and aid Draco in maintaining his sanity.  He knew he should have insisted upon an analysis by the Mind Healers, but he hadn’t wanted to press the issue.

 

He had hoped Draco would heal over time and it seemed Ms Granger’s presence was integral to his recovery, but Severus had been wrong.  Draco was dangerously obsessed with the poor Muggleborn to the point that a fantasy world of love had been created. Severus was dubious in his beliefs Hermione Granger had uttered words of love, but Draco was absolutely adamant.

 

While Draco rubbed his reddened eyes with angry fists and spoke in harsh tones to the surly house elf, Severus invaded his godson’s mind.  His lack of wand was only a testament to his abilities. He was a skilled Legilimens as well as Occlumens as everyone with half a brain was aware.  Draco had been a studious pupil, but currently, he was compromised.

 

“Believe me now, do you?”  Draco sneered.

 

“I apologise.”  Severus bowed his head in the sincerest form of remorse and respect, which seemed to appease the agitated blond.

 

“I told you, but you couldn’t take my word for what it was, could you?  You thought I was having one of my episodes, didn’t you?” Draco stalked toward the surprised Potions Master incredibly quickly and it set Severus on edge.

 

Draco blinked rapidly and Severus gulped.  He recognised the signs of a fit, but he couldn’t retrieve his wand from the sleeve of his robes without exacerbating the situation.  He remained still and hoped it would pass quickly.

 

Draco gasped and choked on his breaths while he gripped his head in his hands.  His fingers twisted in his damp blond hair and he pulled until he was numb. He refused to fall to his knees and the images of the dead woman continuously raced behind his closed eyelids.

 

Her purple lips segued into familiar plump lips and he was shaking his head.  The blood soaked pale blonde hair was suddenly toffee curls and he couldn’t breathe.  The pleading man above him was no longer an emaciated broken man that resembled his father, instead, it was the black as pitch eyes of his Godfather apathetically staring at him.

 

_ “Fool, she’ll never love you.  Pathetic, just like your father always said.  Your mother coddled you and it’s made you weak.  You were always weak.” _

 

“Liar!”  Draco groaned heavily and whipped his wand toward the unassuming Severus Snape.  “Weak?” He cried. “I’ll show you weak!”

 

“Draco,”  Severus finally stood and slipped his wand from the sleeve of his robes.  It was only a moment, a blink of an eye really, but it was far too long for his eyes not to remain focused on the unstable Draco Malfoy.  “Lily,” he whispered in a flash of green and all was still.

 

* * *

 

Harry sat on the edge of Ron’s rumpled bed and watched his mate haphazardly pack his bag.  It was strange not to be going off with him this time. They’d always travelled together. Their missions were always intertwined.  It was difficult to accept that this time, he would be the one left behind.

 

“Don’t forget the Portkey.”  Harry pointed to the ornate silver comb that sat on the corner of the bureau.

 

Ron grunted quietly and stuffed it into his pocket.  There was no point in telling Harry he’d never leave something that important behind.  While he had grown, matured even, he was still known as the forgetful Weasley, the clumsy Weasley.

 

“I think I’ve got everything,”  Ron nodded and looked around his bedchamber at Grimmauld Place happily.

 

He was excited.  He was also absolutely terrified, but mostly excited.  It was completely different going on mission alone than with a proper team.  It was a sign of the Minister’s trust in him and that made Ron feel important.

 

“What’s that?”  Harry frowned and bent to retrieve a small phial that had rolled beneath the bed.

 

“Bollocks.  Alright so, the last time I visited Hermione, we got into a bit of a row.  Don’t look at me like that, it couldn’t be helped. I got a bit nosy and rummaged through things in the loo.  I found that in the cupboard.” Ron shrugged.

 

“What is it?”  Harry squinted and studied the clear liquid curiously.

 

“I don’t know.  I’m bollocks at Potions, always was.  I thought maybe you’d know.” Ron’s bewilderment would have been amusing if Harry hadn’t been so focused.

 

“I’ll look into it,”  Harry declared and slipped the phial into the pocket of his worn denims.

 

The duo ambled down the stairs in companionable silence.  It was still odd to come to terms with the fact Hermione wasn’t there, but they managed.  Ron missed her more than Harry was willing to admit. She was a mainstay and never far from his thoughts, but Harry was preoccupied with Pansy and he wasn’t ashamed of it either, not that he should be.

 

“I uh guess I’ll be seeing you, Harry.”  Ron slapped Harry’s back a little harder than necessary and adjusted his pack over his shoulders.

 

“We don’t have to do the thing where we hug and make promises, do we?”  Harry’s nose crinkled and he faux shuddered at the thought.

 

“Of course not, we’re British and we’re not women.  Give the Ministry hell, Harry.” Ron waved and stepped into a sea of green flames, while Harry wondered when he’d see his friends again.

 

The Minister for Magic impatiently awaited Ron Weasley’s arrival.  He listened to every footstep that wandered down the corridor until he recognised the unique clomp of Weasley feet.  His shoulders relaxed and he settled into his wingback chair with the air of authority that befit someone of his position.

 

“Minister,”  Ron greeted.

 

“Mr Weasley, what a pleasure to have you arrive on time,”  Kingsley quipped.

 

“I wanted to do right, Kingsley.  This isn’t some simple operation. I know how important it is to the cause.”  Ron spoke solemnly and dropped his pack to the floor.

 

“I received your shipment from Severus the day before yesterday.  I expect he’ll owl them regularly. It is imperative that you stick to a stringent schedule.  There isn’t any room for mistakes, Mr Weasley, your very survival depends upon it.” Kingsley folded his hands and his dark face was speckled with beads of anxious sweat.

 

The Ministry was different than it had been before, not that anyone could tell from the outside looking in.  After the supposed conclusion of the War, the Ministry hadn’t nearly enough Pureblood wizards within their ranks.  It seemed they hadn’t wished to investigate their friends and family, but who could blame them really?

 

However, in this particular case, a Pureblood wizard was an absolute necessity.  Severus Snape’s Everlasting Polyjuice Potion refused to work properly unless the witch or wizard was Pureblooded.  There hadn’t been a need to investigate the causes of such a reaction as Snape’s usual allotment of Polyjuice lasted exactly to the twelve-hour mark.

 

The Aurors, Hit Squad, and Investigators had never had a need for a Potion to last longer than that, until now.  It was like nothing they had ever done before, which piqued Kingsley’s interest and also his dread. He was willingly thrusting a young Auror into the unknown with only the shield of ‘greater good’ to ease his laments.  He hoped it would be worth it in the end.

 

Ron held the ordinary wooden box between his large hands and carefully lifted the lid.  Nestled inside, were ten phials. A month’s allotment of Everlasting Polyjuice, which Ron thought was improperly named to say the least.  It didn’t last forever. It only managed three bloody days, which was obviously more than the usual time, but it was by no means everlasting.

 

“This is a single use Portkey,”  Kingsley commented and handed Ron a cracked pottery crock.  “It will transport you to the Accursed Mountains where—“

 

“Hang on a minute,”  Ron gulped. “The Accursed Mountains?  That sounds a bit dodgy doesn’t it?”

 

“Do you honestly believe the rogue Death Eaters would set up shop in a nifty little Muggle Village with all the comforts of home, Mr Weasley?”  Kingsley grimaced and cracked his neck. “As I was saying, we haven’t specific intelligence that gives us an exact location. We know nothing more than the fact there are Death Eaters in that location and the area is approximately forty miles of rugged terrain.  I hope you’re prepared, Mr Weasley.”

 

“I bought a magical tent,”  Ron muttered uncomfortably. “It’s the nicest I’ve ever seen.  I imagine Malfoy would want the best and all. I’ve got Snape’s notes on Malfoy’s mannerisms.  There’s quite a lot to remember, sir, not to mention the never-ending sea of suits and cufflinks.  I’ve done the best I can and I hope it’s enough.” Ron spoke solemnly.

 

“As do I, Mr Weasley.  As do I.”

 

* * *

 

Pansy Parkinson woke in a panic.  She leapt from the bed without tossing back the duvet first and tumbled head first to the floor.  She managed to catch herself with her elbows and knees, yet it didn’t slow down her attempts. She stumbled to her feet and ran for the corridor with her heart in her throat and her ears pounding.

 

It didn’t make a lick of sense, she knew that, and still, she ran.  She burst into the bedchamber beside Harry’s to discover the rumpled bed was empty.  The hysterical scream struggled for freedom, but Pansy bit her knuckles to quell the sound.

 

“No pancakes today, Dahlia.  You’ve got to at least try something else,”  Harry scolded. “I bet Kreacher’s got a nice bowl of fruit for you.”

 

Pansy tilted her head and it was then she heard it.  Harry’s steady footsteps and the pitter patter of Dahlia’s toes against the hardwoods beside him.  She sagged against the nearest wall and jostled a portrait that grunted in annoyance.

 

“Fruits?  Hmm,” Dahlia contemplated.  “Ok, but if fruits are yucky—“

 

“Then you can have pancakes,”  Harry chuckled.

 

Pansy crept down the corridor and paused at the top of the stairs.  She watched Harry and Dahlia make their way into the kitchen and sagged in relief.  She bunched her matronly nightie and sat on the top step.

 

It was a dream.  It wasn’t real. A thief in the night had not stolen away her daughter.  Her mother was not berating her for tarnishing the family name. All was right with her and her daughter, just as it should be.

 

It was in those moments that she missed Luna most.  They’d sent a few owls and kept the pleasantries, but the comfort was lacking.  Luna was superb when it came to comfort and Pansy missed her something awful.

 

She was thrilled beyond measure that Luna was finally happy.  She knew the uniquely odd witch had been searching for something, some sort of fulfilment and had finally found it in Rolf.  Pansy didn’t lament their relationship or even wish there was something between them. She simply desperately missed her friend.

 

“Pans?”  Harry stood at the bottom of the stairs with a letter in his hand.  “Why are you sitting there? You’ve got an owl. I think it’s from the Weasleys.”

 

Pansy stood and nodded her head quickly in that way he liked.  It made her chin length hair sway against her jaw and for some reason, Harry found it quite attractive.  He’d been fond of her for quite some time, but once Dahlia had entered the picture, Harry was over the moon.

 

Most wizards, most men for that mattered craved sons and Harry did hope to have a son someday.  Secretly, however, he’d pined for a girl. There was something about seeing a little girl clinging to her father that plucked at his heartstrings.

 

Harry meandered back into the kitchen and was pleased to see Dahlia cautiously licking each piece of fruit in her bowl.  She frowned at the melon, smiled at the strawberries, and poked the blueberries. He never stopped being enamoured with Dahlia, even when she was cranky and in dire need of a kip.

 

He set the kettle to boil and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.  Harry fingered the phial carefully. He’d spent a few hours bent over Potions books, but he hadn’t been able to identify it.  He’d uncorked the bottle and even tasted a drop. It was reckless, Harry knew that, but he hadn’t felt anything other than a strong desire to shag, which he attributed to a naked Pansy reclined upon his bed.

 

“What’s the worst that can happen?”  Harry chuckled to himself and carefully placed three drops of the peculiar, unidentified Potion in Pansy’s floral teacup.

 

He poured the boiling water over the tea leaves and left the crock of honey beside her saucer, just the way she liked it.  Harry heated the crumpets and hummed while he placed the jam and lemon curd on the table. He’d become quite domestic and he absolutely loved it.

 

He didn’t miss Molly’s hovering.  He didn’t miss being fussed over. He didn’t miss Ginny dabbing the blobs of raspberry jam that always stuck in the corner of his mouth.  He’d been an adult for as long as remembered and finally, he could do what he did best. Harry supposed he should thank the Dursleys for teaching him to set a proper table, but he’d rather not contact them and he was sure they felt the same.

 

“Harry, he said he wants to see her.  He said if I don’t answer him, he’d hire a solicitor.  He can’t do that, can he?” Pansy’s dark eyes were wild and she slammed the letter beside Harry’s elbow.

 

“Who, what?”  Harry tore into the letter while Pansy fixed her tea.

 

Harry was furious.  He couldn’t believe Charlie Weasley’s gall.  He knew Molly was behind it. She was behind nearly every calculated move by anyone that carried the name Weasley.  How she hadn’t been Sorted to Slytherin was anyone’s guess.

 

“I don’t know what to do.”  Pansy slathered her crumpet in butter and sipped her tea.

 

“How many owls has he sent, Pansy?”  Harry kissed the top of Dahlia’s head while she chatted to Horny and fed him blueberries.

 

“I-I honestly don’t know, that would require speaking to my mother.  I might have lived with her, but we hadn’t spoken in years, Harry. When you suggested we live with you, I jumped at the chance to get away from her.”  

 

“I’ll speak with the Investigators.  Your old friend Zabini is a solicitor, isn’t he?  Perhaps you should owl him. I’ll see about issuing a summons for your mother.  We can’t go into this unprepared. I’ve half a mind to visit the Burrow as well.”  

 

Harry had that look in his eye that Pansy remembered well.  She’d often seen him stalking through the corridors of Hogwarts with the same stubborn determination in his mesmerizing green eyes.  She had been mildly impressed with him then, not that she would admit it. Now, however, she admired his strength and wished it were a trait she could claim as her own.

 

“Daddy, eat it,”  Dahlia giggled and shoved a sticky blueberry between Harry’s surprised lips.  

 

“You just want your pancakes, don’t you?”  Harry swept her into his arms and hugged her tight.

 

“I eated my fruits, but the balls are not yummy.  You eat it, Daddy.” Dahlia patted his cheek and Harry didn’t mind her sticky fingers in the least.  

 

His eyes met Pansy’s while he held her daughter and he disliked the uncertainty and the fear he saw reflected in hers.  It would never do. They were safe with him. He would never let anyone hurt them. They were his family.

 

“We’re not going to lose her.  Over my dead fucking body.”

 

“There’s only so many times Harry Potter can die before he tempts the fates and Death wishes to collect,”  Pansy cracked a small smile.

 

“Death and I are old friends, he’d side with me on this one,”  Harry winked. “Trust me.”

  
  
  
  



	11. Splitting Hairs

 

 

The moment Severus Snape’s death rattle filled the library, Draco crept away in solitude.  His stockinged feet were silent as they swept across the marble toward the front door. His shiny black shoes hung delicately from the fingers of his left hand, while his wand dangled in his right.

 

He felt better when he stepped into shadow, but there was still quite a bit of ground to cover before he would consider himself safe from discovery.  He shoved his frigid toes into his shoes and nearly broke into a run. It was silly to resort to subterfuge to escape a handful of house elves when he could simply order them away, but he quite enjoyed the game.

 

After the passing of some moments, the Malfoy Mausoleum came into view.  He had refused Snape’s request that Lucius be laid to rest beside Narcissa.  In fact, Draco had gone so far as to cremate his father and scatter the ashes over the pond where the ducks frolicked.  Part of him hoped the ducks ate his father’s ashes. It was only fitting the bastard be nothing more than duck shite.

 

Draco muttered his counter charm and the impossibly heavy stone scraped its way open.  His personal Locking Charm wasn’t necessarily complicated, but it was his. He hurried down the cracked stone steps without lighting a sconce and listened.

 

“Draaaaacoooo,” a wispy, raspy voice called.

 

“It would be fucking easy to kill you,”  Draco ranted. “I’ve got everything I need to ensure your demise, did you know that?  I’ve got your precious horcrux hidden safely away and I’ve got your pathetic visage stashed in my mausoleum.  No one knows where you are. Your Death Eaters are scattered both far and wide. They’re nearly as pathetic as you are; at least they can still wield a wand.”  Draco laughed.

 

The shrivelled, hairless, grey body stared at Draco with sunken eyes filled with despair.  His plans for domination were for nought, if he could not procure a wand, if he could not gather his strength, if he could not collude with his followers.  He had underestimated the Malfoy heir and despite his unwillingness to admit it, he knew his end was near.

 

“I’ve promised your fucking diadem to the Order,”  Draco cackled. “They would have given me anything I asked for that, but all I wanted was her.  I’ll give it to them I suppose, but not yet. I’ve got ensure she’ll never leave me first. It’s much more difficult than you think it would be.  I can’t even begin to tell you how angry I am that she’s trying to prevent it. I don’t even know why I’m bothering to tell  _ you _ .” 

 

“Draaacoooo, pleaaaseeee,”  the disembodied voice begged.

 

He liked it when the Dark Lord begged.  He liked to see the greatest evil the Wizarding World had ever seen diminished to nothing more than a ragged pile of bones.  It pleased him to know he wielded more power than Tom fucking Riddle and no one had the slightest idea.

 

“This is all your fault, you realise,”  Draco studied the plaques of his ancestors with little, if any, interest.  “All your ridiculous beliefs of blood purity and you’re not even Pureblood.  Your father was a Muggle. I imagine that was quite the shock when you found out.  Is that why you killed him? If you think about it, you should be thankful your Muggle father was a handsome bloke, otherwise you could have wound up like your mother.  She’s the only witch I’ve ever seen that could look to the left and right at the same time. Oh, are you angry?” Draco scoffed. “Go on then, give me your best! Oh that’s right, you haven’t a wand, how silly of me.”

 

Tom Riddle hated Draco Malfoy.  He’d always hated him. He hated his pure blood and his riches.  He hated his perfect fucking parents. He’d hated everything about the boy, but he had misjudged him.  He had believed the boy to be weak. It was obvious the boy was utterly and completely mad, but he  _ was _ brilliant.

 

His bones ached from his uncomfortable position, but he hadn’t the strength to move.  It was, admittedly, a brilliant move on Draco’s part to have the elves feed him just enough to keep him alive.  He’d never regain his strength without the Potion and his precious horcrux.

 

It had been arrogance and perhaps folly to taint the items he had, but it was entirely too late for laments.  He regretted nothing. He would rise again, despite the Malfoy brat’s best efforts. He would not be bested by a child, not again.

 

His followers would come for him.  They would look for him this time. They would not abandon him.  He had faith in them, though even he had to admit it was waning. It  _ had _ been three years and he had heard not even a whisper.

 

“Nothing?”  Draco taunted.  “Not even a raspy ‘I will kill you’?  I’m disappointed. I expected more. I probably shouldn’t though, I mean, you were brought to your knees by a child the first go round and even then you couldn’t even kill him when you had the chance.  You spent entirely too many years attempting to murder Harry Potter, but you see, you talked too much. You made all these grandiose speeches, but you didn’t really accomplish anything.”

 

Draco prodded Tom Riddle’s emaciated foot with the tip of his wand and watched the grey skin jiggle.  It was absolutely disgusting, but it brought him hints of pleasure. Nothing pleased him as much as Hermione in his bed, but those were details the Dark Lord didn’t require.

 

“Ambiiiitious,”  the dry voice croaked. 

 

Draco rolled his eyes and scoffed.  It wasn’t, not really. If he truly were ambitious he would have destroyed the horcrux, the Dark Lord, and taken his place.  Draco didn’t want any of that. He wanted his mother back, but that was an impossibility and it was this bastard’s fault.

 

“Ambitious?  That’s ridiculous.  I have one goal, old man.  I want  _ her _ , that’s it.  I suppose I should thank you,”  Draco sneered. “If it wasn’t for the impossible task of murdering Dumbledore, I doubt she would have showed me the slightest bit of kindness.  She watched me fall apart at the seams. I was fucking desperate to do anything to save my mother, but it was all for naught. My mother is dead and that’s your fault.  I also managed to get  _ her _ , which is sort of your fault as well.  I’m sure you can understand that I’m a bit conflicted about all of it.”

 

Draco snapped his fingers and Blinken popped at his feet.  He absently patted the old elf on the head and sighed. He knew Blinken hated the mausoleum, but he needed someone to keep watch.

 

“Youuuuur faaaather wouuuld be prouuuuud,”  Tom Riddle hissed and choked on the words as it expended so much of his strength to simply speak.

 

Draco clenched his fists and his vision blurred.  He knew the bastard was baiting him. He didn’t know why exactly, but it didn’t matter.  He was no longer capable of coherent thought.

 

He screeched in potent rage and grasped the withered wizard by the torn lapel of his shredded robes.  He shook for so hard and so long, his arms ached. The bald, grey head flopped uselessly on its bony shoulders and Draco gagged at the feel of slimy skin against his.  His listened carefully, but he was unable to discern the wheezing breaths of the Dark Lord, which suited him just fine.

 

In a final act of rage, Draco Malfoy dug his fingers into the mottled grey flesh at the base of Riddle’s neck.  He shoved his fingers beneath the bones and allowed the body to fall to the ground. He braced his weight against the shoulder and with a mighty shout, Draco Malfoy separated Lord Voldemort’s head from his body.

 

Tendrils of smoky grey shadow snaked around his ankles and Draco knew it was the last bits and pieces of Riddle’s soul.  He knew the Malfoy Enchantments would hold and even the last of the Dark Lord would not be able to escape. He stared at the sticky black blood on his fingers and smashed the head against a stone wall.

 

“Blinken, ensure the smoke does not escape.  Put it in a jar if you like, but make sure to imbue it with your magicks.  Once it is done and you can assure me escape is impossible, set the jar in the dungeon, in my father’s former quarters.  You shan’t have to return to the Malfoy Mausoleum again, Blinken. I swear it.” Draco smoothed the elf’s head affectionately and headed up the stairs.  He paused near the door with a sinister gleam in his eye, “send the body to the Order, just as it is.”

 

Draco felt completely dissatisfied, even as he watched the skull weep its blood on the stone.  He had always believed the Dark Lord’s death would involve quite a lot of fanfare and perhaps even screams.  He prodded the skeletal form once more and shrugged. It was strangely anticlimactic, but he wasn’t going to waste any more of his time thinking about it.

 

He left the mausoleum quietly, just the way he had entered.  He walked along the craggy path and did not look back. There was nothing for him there, not anymore.

 

As he glanced at the Manor in the distance, he wondered if he could convince Hermione to live there and then immediately dismissed the thought.  He didn’t want to live there, not ever again. It was filled with nothing but sadness and memories he wished he could forget. He wanted better for his family than that.

 

His favourite little bird had sent another missive and he eagerly tore it open while he ascended the steps to his suite of rooms.  His upper lip curled in displeasure. It seemed the Ministry was moving against him, not that they knew it was him.

 

Draco had been instrumental in aiding the families of his childhood friends out of the country.  He’d kept careful watch on their estates and knew the Ministry regularly invaded their homes for proof of their Death Eater affiliations.  It seemed Nott had been spotted in bloody Albania of all places and they expected others to make an appearance as well.

 

“Weasley,”  Draco snarled.  “They’re sending fucking Weasley.”

 

It was perfect really.  The Ministry’s hope of hope lay in the bumbling hands of Ron Weasley.  It amused him endlessly until he read the bits about Snape’s Polyjuice.  He rubbed his forehead and reread the words until they were burned into his skull.

 

They wished to snatch him from the fucking street!  It was absolute madness! He had been cleared of charges for Salazar’s sake, but it seemed the Ministry was much more interested in apprehending Death Eaters than protecting the innocent.  Draco was aghast at the idea that the Ministry believed Ronald fucking Weasley could and would impersonate him. Him!

 

“I’m a fucking Malfoy and they honestly believe a magical coma would be the best recourse?”  Draco crumpled the parchment and clenched his jaw. “If she knew—“ Draco fumed. “Well, I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

 

_ Send the Greengrass sisters to my dwelling _ .

 

It was a simple missive, but Theo would know exactly what he wanted.  He hadn’t stepped foot in Albania since he’d settled the familiar families, yet he maintained a residence.  It was paltry in comparison to the Manor and dismal when compared to the cottage, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was for show.  It was used to keep the illusion of his presence.  He chuckled darkly and hoped Weasley had been practising.  The Greengrass sisters would be over the moon to see him in their midst.  They were tolerable as far as shags were concerned and he did so hope Weasley was up to the task.

 

“I can’t believe my fucking Godfather betrayed me.  I trusted him and he was scheming behind my back all along.  Well, I suppose it’s for the best he’s dead. Sorry Ministry!”  Draco cackled. “Oh the poor Order! No more information or Potions for them!  Whatever shall they do?”

 

Draco hurried from his rooms while snarling and spitting about the Order.  He stomped down the steps and marched directly into the Potions Laboratory.  He would discover the truth and then, then he would burn it to the fucking ground.

 

She was his.  They were not going to take her away from him.  He had worked too hard for too long. He deserved her.  She loved him, he knew she did, but her fucking Gryffindor heart would force her to return to Harry Potter.  He couldn’t risk it.

 

“Ha!”  Draco chortled maniacally when he discovered the false drawer in Snape’s desk.  “I am completely stricken by his underhandedness. All this time I honestly believed Benedict was feeding her a Fertility Potion and he had been fucking plotting to keep her from having my child.  Fuck, I wonder if that phial in the cottage is Contraception. I’ll have to study it—“

 

“Master!”  Benedict interrupted Draco’s tirade and wrung his hands in distress.  “Muggles! Muggles near the cottage! Mistress isn’t safe!”

 

“Gods be damned!”  Draco thrust the small wooden box into Benedict’s hands.  “Take this to the cottage. Destroy the Potions there. I do believe we’ve been duped, Benedict.  Remain hidden until I pass through the wards with her. We can’t risk discovery.”

 

* * *

 

She landed with a grunt and sunk to her knees.  The shackle was already demanding she return to the safety of the wards.  She leant down and unzipped her boots to glower at the offending item laid against her skin. 

 

The area around it was red and inflamed.  It stung to touch it and she slipped her feet free.  She knew she needed to return, but not yet. She wanted to relish the glorious fresh air of freedom even in the blistery chill.

 

Hermione crept to the edge of the cliffs despite the blistering heat against her skin.  The silver shackle objected to being outside the wards, not that she cared. She wasn’t ensconced in a Charmed garden or contained to a cosy cottage.  She was standing on the edge of a dangerous cliff and breathing in the salty sea air and it tasted like freedom.

 

“Miss?  What are you doing way out here?”

 

Hermione was startled and her foot slipped on the damp grasses littered with stones.  She attempted to retreat and waved her arms, but her forward projection continued. She shrieked and twisted her body to cling to the earth, lest she fall to her death.

 

Her fingernails scraped against the rocky crag and her feet scrambled for purchase.  Her body continued to slide and she looked to the frightened Muggles for aid. Her elbows struck a particularly large rock and her teeth slammed together painfully.

 

She was losing her footing and before long, she was wedged on a precariously small ledge, composed entirely of sandy earth.  She was afraid to draw breath and filled her hands with slippery grasses to keep from crashing to the waiting angry ocean.

 

“Hang on Miss!”

 

Hermione whimpered and pressed against the side of the cliff, reminiscent of a hug.  She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t ready to die. She didn’t want to be a Prisoner of War, but she definitely didn’t want to die.

 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell John, you kint lift ‘er!”

 

The two men above her were more intent on arguing than rescuing, which didn’t bode well for Hermione.  Finally, after a small scuffle, some harsh cusses, and perhaps a punch or two, she felt hands grasp her wrists and tug.  She grunted in discomfort when her torso scraped against the cliff and cried out when her feet dangled in the air.

 

She whimpered as the jagged stones dug into her flesh through the tears in what had been a pretty dress.  She rolled onto her back the moment she was able and gulped in great breaths, filled with relief. Her palms stung and the pinky finger on her left hand was bent at an odd angle.

 

She spat out the bits of dirt and blood with a turn of her head and glanced at the men who had rescued her from certain death.  They were difficult to see, especially with the way the lowering sun bathed them in shadow. Her left leg was numb, but she attributed that to the magicks imbued in the shackle until one of the men touched it.

 

He yowled and gripped his hand, while his dark eyes stared at the bit of metal on her leg.  It didn’t look like anything more than an ornate piece of jewellery, but the skin around it was incredibly inflamed.  He swore his fingers had been burnt off, but as he stared at them, they were only swollen and incredibly red.

 

“What’d you do ta John?!”  A gargantuan red-bearded man snarled at her and sunk to his knees to tend his mate.

 

There was something askew.  He wasn’t a fool. It didn’t make a bit of sense to see some woman wandering about the cliffs, in a dress no less.  She wasn’t dressed for the conditions and to wander out alone was pure madness.

 

“Nothing,”  Hermione gasped.

 

“We kint leave ‘er ‘ere, Keller,”  John the Muggle grunted.

 

Keller, the bearded man, snarled in disagreement.  He yanked on his winter hat and rubbed his hands together to stave off the cold.  He didn’t want to bring the wench to the little town. He didn’t want to care for her.  He wanted to sit before a fire and drink until he couldn’t see, but it wasn’t an option.

 

“Quite the trek, not sure she’s up for it,”  Keller snarled.

 

He offered his fair friend a hand and yanked the smaller man to his feet.  It had taken them nearly half a day to make it to the top of the cliffs and here John wanted to tote some brainless woman back down.  Ridiculous, and he would have said so if he’d been asked. Instead, he begrudgingly lifted the wilted woman into his muscular arms just as her eyes rolled back in her head.

 

John and Keller snarled angrily at each other as they slowly made their way down the imposing peak.  They’d always wound up distracted when they considered the trek before, but that day they were focused and filled with excitement.  They pushed through the brush eagerly and were quite proud of their achievements until that woman showed up.

 

“Granger?!”  A booming voice echoed in the distance and gave the Muggles pause.  “Granger? Hermione!”

 

“Where’d ‘e come from?”  Keller asked gruffly and scratched his beard against his chin.

 

“Malfoy,”  Hermione moaned and her eyelids fluttered in their struggle to open.

 

“Where’d she come from then?  Dunno, dun much care either. Give ‘er back.  The pub be calling me somethin’ awful.” 

 

John shook his head and decided this wasn’t the life for him.  He didn’t need adventure. Adventure was foolish. Adventure was going to get him killed if the look on the blond bloke’s face was any indication.

 

“What did you do to her?”  Draco Malfoy’s face was contorted in rage and he easily snatched Hermione from the big bastard’s arms.

 

“Well see, we was standing there doin’ a bit o’ nothing an’ she jus’ came outta air.  Tried to tell ‘er to be careful n whatnot, but she jumped a bit n near fell off th’cliff.  Keller toll me I kint get ‘er an ‘e was right n all so we dragged ‘er back up an’ she fainted straight ‘way,”  John cradled his throbbing hand and shrugged.

 

“You’re not even supposed to be here,”  Draco hissed and carefully brushed Hermione’s curls off her forehead.  “Gratitude is in order, I suppose. I don’t know what I would have done if I lost her.”

 

The Muggle men watched the reverence in the blond’s every movement and decided the girl was in good hands.  He was obviously still a bit angry and they didn’t want to fight with the man. They didn’t know where he came from or how he got there, but they didn’t care.  They’d honestly had enough adventure for the day and wished for nothing more than a pint to whet their whistles.

 

“Right, so—“  Keller began lamely.

 

“It’ll be dark soon.  You’ll want to head back to the village before you get lost.  Thank you for seeing to her. I’ll take it from here.”

 

Draco’s tone was dismissive, not that he cared.  He’d managed to remain cordial with a couple of bumbling Muggles that had put their hands on his witch.  She was injured and needed tending, therefore he hadn’t another moment to spare.

 

He turned on his heel and dug his shiny black shoes into the ground.  He required the leverage to ascend the hill as he couldn’t Apparate with the bloody Muggles just staring after him.  He nearly drew his wand to Confund them, nearly. However, he decided against it. The strange part of him that delighted in the feel of a soft Muggleborn against his chest, wished her to be proud of him.

 

Draco had enough sense to pause near the edge of the wards.  He couldn’t have a pair of idiots watch him disappear. Merlin only knew what sort of havoc that would wreak and while he didn’t much care if the Muggles lived or died, he knew Hermione would.  Her bloody Gryffindor heart ruined all his fucking plans, but he didn’t care, as long as he got to keep her in the end.

 

“Where’s ‘e goin’?”  John asked Keller completely confused.

 

“I ‘eard about blokes like ‘im.  Is best we jus’ go down the pub, John.  Drink ‘til we forget.”

 

Keller latched onto John’s flannel collar and dragged his mate down the hill.  He didn’t look back, but he supposed if he did, he’d see nothing. He’d heard the rumours of the man on the hill but chocked it up to drunkards.  He wished he were drunk in order to forget everything they’d encountered that day.

 

Draco waited until the Muggles were mere blips on the horizon before he stepped through the wards.  She winced in his arms from the sting of magicks and he held her a bit tighter in response. He was worried she hadn’t regained consciousness other than a weak mumble of his name.

 

“Benedict!”  Draco shouted for the elf and moved as fast as his feet would carry him toward the cottage.

 

The quivering, nervous elf flung open the front door and rung his hands in fright.  He’d never failed his Master before and it stressed him greatly. While he’d never been ordered to iron his ears, Benedict had taken it upon himself to deliver his own punishments when he felt they were warranted.

 

“Set out the Potions, set the kettle on and heat a bit of broth as well.”  Draco’s orders flew from his lips as he marched directly toward the bedroom.

 

He moved to set her on the bed, but the state of her clothes and the dirt that clung to her forced him to continue to the bathroom.  He refused to set her down and growled in frustration. He needed to assess the damage, but it was impossible to think straight.

 

“Master, Benedict set a clean duvet on the bed.  Master can tend his Mistress first and then bathe her.  Benedict can see to the taps,” the elf suggested quietly.

 

While Draco didn’t respond, he did return to the bedroom and lay her gently on the bed.  He didn’t want to resort to magic to remove her clothing, though he hadn’t a reason as to why.  He waited until Benedict carried the tray of Healing Potions into the bathroom and he heard the sound of water rushing into the bathing tub before he removed her cloak.

 

It was filthy and tattered in places, but it could be mended easily enough.  Draco tossed it to the floor and grimaced when he saw the state of her feet. He grumbled at her stupidity as he plucked bits of gravel from the bottom of her feet and inspected the blistering red indentations.

 

Hermione frowned in her exhausted slumber, but she was warm.  Her skin felt raw, but she was no longer frozen to the bone and the shackle had ceased its punishments.  She knew she was being undressed and her body manipulated, but she was warm. 

 

Soft, warm hands massaged the strip of skin between her breasts and the aching throb finally ebbed.  She sighed in relief and didn’t put up a fuss when her undergarments were removed. The cuts and scrapes that littered her thighs dissipated one by one and she released a low timbered moan that caused the ministrations to halt.

 

Draco swallowed hard while his eyes traversed her nudity.  Her lightly tanned arms were flung over her head, which only set her breasts on display.  Her dusky pink nipples had hardened while he spread the salve on her injuries and he licked his lips.

 

Against his better judgement, he slipped his wand from his pocket and tapped it against the shackle.  The ornate silver opened and he removed her ankle from the binding. He hissed at the angry red welts hidden beneath it and yet, he couldn’t help but smirk with pride to see her skin marred with an ornate ‘M’.  She was branded. She was his and it was a simple matter to imbue her brand with magicks rather than return the grating shackle to her skin.

 

Benedict averted his eyes from his naked Mistress and set the tea tray on the nightstand.  He wanted his Master to be happy. He didn’t much care for the girl, but Master’s entire demeanour changed when she was present, therefore Benedict wished her to stay.  It was for their own good.

 

Draco aligned his love with pillows and carefully propped her against them.  Her lips parted in a silent sigh and he tapped her bottom lip with a silver spoon laden with hot tea.  She swallowed and sighed with every small spoonful and gods, he wanted her. As the last dregs of tea passed her lips, he looked to his elf.  

 

“Set a Warming Charm on the bath.  We’ll utilise it later,” he demanded.

 

Draco sat beside her and simply watched her chest rise and fall with every breath.  He struggled with an internal dilemma, yet in the end, his hands couldn’t help themselves.  He started slow and caressed her abdomen until she shifted and sighed.

 

It seemed she was fond of soft, soothing circles drawn on her skin and he was most willing to continue his efforts.  Her porcelain skin was littered with gooseflesh when he grazed the underside of her breasts and he watched as a blush formed from nearly head to toe.

 

His thumbs brushed across her hard nipples and the whimper that escaped her throat had him instantly aroused.  He didn’t stop himself from squeezing, tugging, and toying with her tauntingly delicious breasts. He even went so far as to give them personalized attentions with his teeth and tongue.

 

“No,”  Hermione pouted and whined when he pulled away, which made him smile.  She wanted him and he was more than willing to oblige.

 

Draco quickly shucked his clothes and left them in a heap beside the bed.  He needed this. He needed her. He’d lost everyone he’d ever loved. He couldn’t lose her as well.

 

He reclined beside her and he felt his heart swell in happiness when she rolled into him.  His arm automatically came around her and he squeezed her arse. Her breasts scraped against his chest and he bent to kiss her.

 

Her skin was so warm, much warmer than usual, but he didn’t care.  She was responding in ways he hadn’t imagined since their dark morning tryst.  Her ragged fingers dug into his back and no matter how close he was, she yanked on him as though it weren’t enough.

 

Her happy whimpers of  _ ‘yes, please, there’  _ was music to his ears while his fingers moved to a steady beat between her legs.  He kissed his way down her body, but she latched onto his hair and tugged until he winced.  Her legs were spread wide and willing and he wanted nothing more than to taste her.

 

“No,” she sighed, “you, just you.”  

 

He couldn’t argue with that.  Hell, he didn’t  _ want _ to argue with that.  He eagerly climbed between her thighs and sighed when his achingly hard cock brushed against her weeping sex.  His garbled  _ ‘oh fuck’ _ against her ear when she snaked her hands between them to guide him home nearly had him finishing before he started.

 

Whatever Weasley had done to cause her to ache for him, he didn’t know.  He considered sending the man an owl of thanks, especially when she bucked against him.  He wasn’t going to last long, he knew it. It was too much of everything all at once and his light grunts against her ear became as frantic as his thrusts.

 

Hermione struggled to the surface of her stupor seconds before she screamed her release.  She felt him, on top of her, inside her, moaning in her ear. She felt her hands desperately clutching him to her and her legs lazily locked around his hips.  She didn’t understand how it had happened and then his lips were smashed against hers and his tongue was in her mouth as he spilt into her.

 

“I love you,” he sighed into her hair and collapsed on her.

 

She remained silent and blinked at the ceiling.  What the hell was wrong with her? How could she keep doing this?  Did her subconscious secretly want him? Was that the problem? She hadn’t the answers, but she wished she did.

 

“Say it back,”  Draco lazily whined and bit her throat.  “You can’t shag me like that and not say it back, love.  I know you feel it. You can’t pretend you don’t, not after that.”  Draco winced as his limp cock slid from her warmth and managed to remove some of his weight from her.  He wasn’t ready to watch her get up and hide away in the bathroom. Everything was perfect now. She’d come back, albeit it a little worse for wear and she’d begged him to shag her.  “I want you to stay with me. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. It could have happened, we could have done it, just now. Could you imagine?” Draco snuggled into her side happily and caressed her abdomen.  “Tell me,” he implored.

 

“Love you back,”  Hermione whispered as the tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into her hair.

  
  



	12. Albania

Charlie Weasley almost wished he’d never taken holiday.  He wasn’t against a bit of rest and relaxation, that wasn’t the issue.  He  _ was _ against the interfering thinly veiled barbs that stemmed from his well-intentioned mother.

 

He’d nearly volunteered for Ron’s assignment once he got wind of it, but Percy had thoroughly admonished him for even considering it.  Charlie knew Percy, in his ridiculously stuffy manner was only looking out for his best interests, but he really wished his family would stop.  He wasn’t a child. He was a fucking dragon wrangler for Merlin’s sake, not that it mattered to his mother.

 

He envied Bill.  Bill had managed to escape their mother’s clutches by marrying Fleur.  Fleur was easy on the eyes, but she was formidable in her own right. She smiled sweetly and her pretty eyes would narrow before heavily accented English emerged in such a way that it took a bit to realise she’d uttered an insult.

 

Vaguely, he wondered if Fleur’s little sister was still single.  Gabrielle, was it? Something like that. She had curves in all the right places and Charlie wouldn’t have been against investigating them in some dark corner.  He hadn’t seen her in ages, but she couldn’t have changed all that much.

 

“Charlie,”  Percy lectured.  “You’ve got that look in your eye again.  Tell me I’m not going to be forced to clean up another one of your messes.  I think you’re in enough trouble considering the Parkinson girl.”

 

Charlie ground his Muggle cigarette into the dirt and watched his exhaled smoke swirl away in a frigid breeze before he turned to his uptight brother.  He and Percy had never been close, which is why he had turned to Percy when he’d caught a bit of trouble. Charlie knew Percy would be honoured to be included and used it to his advantage.

 

“I’ve got an itch is all,”  Charlie shrugged and pushed his scraggly red hair off his cheek.

 

“I don’t think you should be scratching any itches until the Parkinson situation is resolved.  You know Mother isn’t going to let it go. She’s going to march you straight to the Ministry and demand you accept responsibility, which is ridiculous if you ask me.  It’s not as if Mother wants the child. She’s just angry—“

 

“Harry shamed her.  I’m not sure she’ll ever forgive him for that,”  Charlie laughed.

 

“Probably not,”  Percy gripped his lapels, which made him look a bit more poncy than usual.  “I know of an unscrupulous establishment that might be able to aid you with your itch.”  Percy cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable.

 

Charlie considered it.  Gods, he considered it. It would have been so easy to readily follow Percy into the depths of darkness.  He desperately wanted to scratch an itch, but he wasn’t stupid.

 

“I’d love to, but I’ve got to have a chat with Harry before mum runs off to the Ministry.”  Charlie rolled his eyes and snarled in irritation.

 

He adored his dragon skin duster, but it was a piss poor excuse to wear it with the weather as cold as it was.  Charlie Cast a quick Warming Charm and wished he had a few more moments of solitude before he was forced to deal with his banshee of a mother.  He loved her, but Godric knew, he didn’t particularly  _ like _ her.

 

“Charlie!  There you are!”  Bill Weasley hurried from the Burrow with wild eyes that eased upon spying his brother near the gnome riddled garden.  “I told mum I thought you were out here. She’s a bit mental over the Dahlia situation, which is irritating Fleur. We’ve got a birthday to plan and—“

 

“Birthday?  It’s not Victoire’s birthday,”  Charlie interrupted, slightly confused.

 

“Gods no, Victoire is two going on thirty,”  Bill laughed. “Gabrielle, it’s nearly Gabrielle’s birthday and Fleur wanted to do something, but mum is completely preoccupied.”

 

“Gabrielle, hmm,”  Charlie mused and attempted to ignore the itch that had settled at the base of his skull with a tingle.  “How old is she now?”

 

Bill’s brow furrowed, which made him look much more menacing than he was, especially with that scar across his face.  He didn’t like the gleam in his brother’s eye. He’d heard whispers from Percy and the twins, but he refused to believe any of them.  He was loyal to a fault, but at the same time, Bill was exceedingly wary.

 

“Sixteen,”  Bill offered slowly.  “It’s her last birthday before adulthood and all and Fleur wanted it to be special.”

 

Charlie tugged his duster closed and feigned a shiver when in reality he was in the process of tamping down his immediate erection.  It was wrong, so wrong on so many levels and he knew it. It wasn’t his fault that he was attracted to witches barely on the cusp of adulthood.  He’d tried to date and shag women near his own age, but his temperamental flesh-wand had refused to cooperate.

 

“I’ll deal with mum, promise, in exchange for an invite of course,”  Charlie winked so innocently, Bill’s anxiety dissipated.

 

Bill tossed back his head and laughed.  His exceedingly long red hair blew in the crisp breeze and for a moment, Charlie was reminded of a dragon.  He missed his dragons, but he couldn’t reject every familial obligation to freeze his bollocks off in Romania.

 

“Of course, you’re family.  In fact, if you manage to calm mum down, you can administer the last swat.”

 

“Swat?  What’s this nonsense now?”  Charlie huddled into his duster and turned toward the house, relieved the ache in his trousers had ebbed.

 

“Gabrielle visited a mate abroad.  Apparently, they administer some sort of birthday spankings?  I’m not exactly sure, you’d have to ask Fleur. Anyway, Gabrielle insisted upon implementing the custom if she was going to be forced to spend her birthday at the Burrow rather than in France.”

 

Charlie stumbled and coughed, which is the only thing that disguised his moan.  They were trying to kill him. They would succeed in killing him if they didn’t stop taunting him.  They had offered his weakness on a silver fucking platter and he was not strong enough to resist.

 

“Shake on it,”  Charlie said and he almost wished his older brother resisted.

 

Percy and Molly peeked out the kitchen window and watched the exchange between Charlie and Bill.  They were insanely curious as to why the brothers were laughing and shaking hands, but Percy knew it couldn’t be anything good.  He’d seen the hungry dark gaze in his brother’s eye and vowed to keep an eye on him. He couldn’t conceal another scandal. He’d used all his favours for the last one.

 

“Oh I do hope Bill managed to convince Charlie to do what’s right,”  Molly twittered happily.

 

“I doubt it,”  Percy quipped. “Mum, I’ve got to go.  There’s a few things I need to—“

 

“Take Charlie with you!  It’s the perfect opportunity for him to file the proper papers with the Ministry!”

 

Percy knew it was futile to disagree with Molly Weasley.  She wasn’t the sort of witch that took no for an answer or even respected someone else’s opinion.  It was no wonder he had turned his back on his family during the War. It was an exercise in freethinking and such things were heavily frowned upon in the Weasley family.

 

He was the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation for Merlin’s sake.  Percy Weasley did not have the time nor the inclination to babysit his older, stubborn, degenerate brother.  However, he did as he was bid and strode directly into the garden. He nodded at Bill and grasped Charlie by the scruff of the neck and dragged him passed toward the Floo Network.

 

“What the fuck, Perce?”  Charlie struggled free, but it was too late.  He scowled at the Ministry Atrium and vaguely wondered when Percy had grown a bloody backbone.

 

“Oh please, it’s not like we Apparated.  I merely shoved you into the Floo. For a dragon tamer, you’re a bit of a baby.”  Percy staunchly pointed toward the lifts and ignored the curious glances around them with his nose in the air.  “Mother demanded it.  _ I _ don’t expect you to file anything at all, but I do think you should have a chat with Harry.  It’s the least you can do before you return to Romania. You  _ are _ returning to Romania posthaste, yes?”

 

Charlie shrunk away from the pretty witches that sent him ‘come hither’ eyes.  They were attractive, at least some of them were, but they were terribly old. The lumpy witch that pinched his bum gave him quite the fright and Percy laughed.  Charlie didn’t even know Percy  _ could _ laugh.

 

“Yeah alright.  I’ll uh go on over to the Auror Department and have a chat with Harry.  It’s better than being ogled by these horny bints.” Charlie scratched his head while he avoided groping hands and took a moment to compose himself.  “I’m going back, Perce. Can’t stay here forever or anything, but Bill’s invited me to Gabrielle’s birthday.”

 

Percy inhaled through his flared nostrils and closed his eyes.  He convinced himself Charlie would never do anything untoward to their sister-in-law’s sister.  He wanted to be sure of it, but sadly, he couldn’t and that scared him more than anything.

 

“I think—“  Percy began.

 

“I think I need the address of that seedy little establishment if I’m going to keep my head,”  Charlie hissed in his brother’s ear. It was a ploy. It was always a ploy, but Percy was just so bloody trusting, it was easy.

 

Percy slipped a torn scrap of parchment into Charlie’s pocket and stepped off the lift without a backward glance.  He couldn’t understand his brother. He didn’t want to understand his brother. He simply wished to keep his family safe.  It was the least he could do.

 

As for Charlie, he ambled down the corridor of the Auror Department in search of Harry Potter.  He didn’t particularly want to confront the man or anything, but it was better than dealing with his mother.  He pretended to understand Molly, but he didn’t. It wasn’t as if Molly was thrilled with the prospect of a bastard grandchild, she wasn’t.  However, she wouldn’t want anyone to believe otherwise, which Charlie supposed was the driving force behind her insistence.

 

“Oi, Harry,”  Charlie called.  “A moment?”

 

Harry interrupted his conversation with his Department Head with a nod and slowly walked toward the older Weasley.  He wasn’t expecting a visit and it concerned him slightly. He was supposed to meet with Kingsley to discuss Ron’s mission in Albania, but it slipped his mind as he greeted Charlie with a hearty handshake.

 

“Charlie,”  Harry said solemnly.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Thought we should have a chat.  Suss things out before my mum gets involved and it’s a huge mess.”

 

“Fair, alright uhm, should we take it to my office?”  Harry frowned, suddenly unsure if he wanted to discuss things of a personal nature in the Ministry.

 

“I’d rather not,”  Charlie said stiffly with a quick look around.  He didn’t like the curious eyes that were locked on them and had no desire to be the source of gossip.  “I know a place. It’s a bit out of your element, but if you’re not up for it—“

 

“It’s fine.  Let’s go.”

 

Charlie smiled the way he always did when he won without trying.  He was utterly fearless, which was probably why he was Sorted to Gryffindor, but he also had quite the streak of manipulativeness.  He enjoyed pushing the line.

 

Later, when they walked down the dodgy steps that lead to Knockturn Alley, Harry was understandably nervous.  Despite the fact, things were different since the Battle of Hogwarts, there was still a proclivity of unsavories that wandered the back alleys of Knockturn Alley.  He carefully drew the collar of his robes up and hoped he hadn’t been seen.

 

“The Candy Shop?  I don’t understand,”  Harry practically hissed.

 

“Wait for it.”

 

Charlie ignored the dusty shelves littered with jars of stale candy and walked directly to the small door in the back.  He’d read Percy’s instructions carefully and wondered how his uptight brother had discovered the establishment in the first place.  The blinking purple sign that declared the shop open for business was a nice distraction and he managed a small laugh as he tapped his wand against the door.

 

“This is a terrible idea.  I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”  Harry mumbled and blinked as they were suddenly encased in darkness.

 

He could feel the gentle prod of noninvasive magic and stood ridiculously still.  Harry gulped when ready hands removed his robes and gave him a gentle shove forward.  A small, feminine hand tugged on his and then he was sat in an armchair that caused him to sigh.

 

“I’ve got to send Percy a box of chocolates,”  Charlie muttered. “This is better than the rub and tug in Romania.”

 

“C-Charlie, I don’t want a rub and tug.  There are breasts in my face. Why are there breasts in my face?”

 

“I’ve got an itch to scratch, Harry.  No one says you’ve got to indulge.”

 

Charlie propped his arms behind his head and settled comfortably on the plush armchair.  He didn’t mind the breasts in his face or the hand that paid special attentions to the bulge in his trousers.  He’d rather like to see the witches providing him service and his wish was granted.

 

He glanced at Harry and nearly guffawed at the sight.  Poor Harry Potter had a voluptuous witch straddling his lap and his face was mashed between her breasts.  His glasses were askew and it looked as though he were having a bit of trouble in the breathing department.

 

“Don’t think he’s interested,”  Charlie sighed and took a gander at his witch.

 

He shuddered and pushed her away.  She would never do and he felt himself deflate.  He knew what he wanted, but he didn’t know what The Magic Stick provided to their customers.

 

“Katie, we’ve another dud.  I can’t work like this.” The voluptuous blonde climbed off Harry’s lap and sent him a scathing glare.

 

“Sorry Harry.  I can’t have you here if you’re not going to at least pretend to play along,”  Katie Bell stepped from the shadows with heavily kohled eyes. Her brown hair was piled on her head and she looked quite alluring in the low light.

 

“I just want to have a chat with him!”  Harry protested and thrust his thumb in Charlie’s direction.

 

“We can arrange that if you can suffer through a bit of light touching.”  Katie smiled and her dark eyes roved his body appreciatively. “Tracy, would you see to his Weasley friend?  I suspect they’ll need a private room and Communication Charms. Give him whatever he likes.”

 

Katie Bell offered her hand to Harry and he was too dumbstruck to refuse.  She was different and yet the same. She still had a strength about her, but it was hard to focus on her strengths when she had bared so many of her assets.  Harry’s eyes followed the sway of her hips and when she bent at the waist, he held his breath when he saw the cusp of her arse.

 

“Katie, how did this, how did this happen?”  Harry asked, confused.

 

“Oh Harry, it’s nice to see you.  Never expected you to visit. You always were a bit of a prude, yeah?  There’s nothing wrong with a little mutual satisfaction, might as well get paid for it.”  Katie’s tinkling laughter filled the small room and she pointed to the oversized armchair in the centre.  “Sit there. I’ll send one of my girls along shortly. Tap the side table three times with your wand and it will activate the Communication Charm unless you want to be in the same room with your Weasley mate?”

 

“No!  No, this is uhm, this is fine.”

 

Harry hurried to the chair and yelped when it flung him backwards.  He had to admit it was ridiculously comfortable in the midst of an uncomfortable situation.  He probably could have closed his eyes and taken a quick kip, but he wasn’t there for that. He was supposed to be chatting with Charlie bloody Weasley but—

 

“Oi, Potter?  Can you hear me?”

 

Harry jumped and cursed all at once.  He was definitely off-kilter and he was disgruntled with himself more than anything.  He was an Auror for fuck’s sake. He was trained for situations of intrigue, but never anything like this.

 

“Yeah, just fine actually,”  Harry replied once he’d regained his breath.

 

“Alright, give me a few and then we’ll have our chat.  Have a drink.”

 

Charlie settled into the comfy red leather and embraced the tingle at the base of his skull.  He could barely contain his excitement. When the small collection of witches paraded into his private room, he inspected each one carefully.

 

“Do you see anything you like?”  Katie crooned. She noticed his nervous pause and nodded knowingly.  She’d come across such things before. “We maintain confidentiality with all our clients, Mr Weasley.  Your proclivities are safe here.”

 

“Younger,”  Charlie demanded as he eyed an enticing little brunette.

 

“As you wish.”

 

The witches were easily replaced with others that nearly whet his appetite.  The shy blonde made him smile the most. It was obvious she was new from the nervous blush on her cheeks and her demure dress teased him of what lay beneath.  

 

“Do you have limits?”  Charlie inquired of Katie while his eyes never left the slight blonde.

 

“From the looks of it, Genette has caught your eye.  She’s my newest and if you’re going to mar her, I’ll require five thousand galleons before you proceed.”  Katie crooked her finger and the tiny blonde took two steps forward.

 

“Rules?”  Charlie asked and leant forward.

 

“Anything goes, Mr Weasley, as long as you don’t permanently disfigure her,” Katie bent to Charlie’s ear and whispered.  “She claims she’s seventeen, but I doubt it. One hundred galleons per hour is her price.” Katie knew exactly what to say to seal the deal and what did it matter if it wasn’t true?

 

“Done,”  Charlie hissed and eagerly licked his lips.  He handed Katie a small leather pouch that was nearly bursting at the seams with galleons and she smiled.

 

“Genette.”  Katie snapped her fingers and suddenly, they were alone.

 

The waif trembled under his scrutiny and it only made him crave her.  Charlie stood and walked around her slowly. He touched her shoulder, hip, bum, and the curve of her breast with gentle fingers.  He pushed her long blonde hair over her shoulders until it hung down her back.

 

“It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?  Why don’t you take that off?” Charlie whispered in her ear.

 

He ached to see her plump breasts unfettered and stood behind her while she hesitated.  He pulled on her hips and ground his erection into her bum. He liked it when they were nervous.  It made him feel powerful.

 

Genette pushed the thin straps of her cream gown off her shoulders as directed.  She felt the soft cotton gather on her hips before it fell to the floor. She didn’t know what to expect as she stood there in her undergarments.  

 

“And the rest of it.”  

 

Charlie sipped his firewhiskey with cool reserve.  It was delightful of The Magic Stick to provide him with spirits.  Her arse was tight. Her skin was alabaster and soft. Her breasts were perky, yet ample sized.  He couldn’t wait to touch her.

 

“Charlie!”

 

Harry was completely exasperated.  He didn’t want to spend another moment in the bowels of Knockturn Alley.  He wanted to ensure Charlie wasn’t going to fight for Dahlia. He wanted Charlie to fuck off back to Romania.

 

“It’s alright, come stand right here.  Wonderful,” Charlie sighed. “Give me a fucking minute, would you?!”

 

Genette’s blue eyes watered slightly as she approached the older wizard.  She wasn’t experienced, that much was obvious. She’d never even kissed a boy and now some strange wizard had his hand between her thighs.  What had she done?

 

“Don’t be shy, open up.”

 

Charlie greedily stroked her sex and held her still with a firm hand on her arse.  It was easy enough to wrap his lips around her pale nipple and suck hard. She was dry, but he’d fix that in no time.  He removed his fingers and shoved them in her open mouth before he returned his attention to her sex.

 

“There you go.  Isn’t that better?”

 

Genette nodded because she knew that was what she was supposed to do.  Katie had been insistent with her instructions. Genette was to please the wizard fully and never say no.  She could do that. It was what had got her into this mess in the first place.

 

Charlie allowed the timid witch a reprieve and released her.  He saw her shoulders sag and chuckled at her expense. The poor girl thought they were done and they had barely begun.  He stood while her eyes widened to saucers and dropped his trousers to the floor.

 

She gasped when he pulled her into his lap and she wasn’t sure how she felt about the hardness that rubbed against her stomach.  Genette had been educated in cock the moment she fell under Katie’s employ, but to actually feel one was a different matter. Her hands naturally flew to his shoulders and he looked happy about it.

 

“I’m going to fuck you now,”  Charlie hissed and slowly eased the woman onto his cock.  “It’ll probably be unpleasant this first go round. I’ve given your Madam enough for a few hours at least.  I don’t expect we’ll be interrupted. I’ve got to have a chat with a mate, try and be quiet.”

 

Genette nodded.  She winced and whimpered slightly at the burn of his shallow thrusts.  She didn’t know it was supposed to burn, but as quickly as it started, it stopped.  She felt her body’s natural lubrication and was thankful for it.

 

“You haven’t got to worry, Harry.”

 

“Charlie, there’s a naked witch sat on my lap.  I don’t want her there. She keeps trying to free my cock.  I don’t want that either. I thought we were here to chat!” Harry’s annoyed grunts amused Charlie greatly.

 

“This relaxes me.  Try it, Potter, you might like it.  Fuck that’s good, just like that.” Charlie dug his fingers into Genette’s hips and showed her the movements that made him happy.  She caught on quickly and he couldn’t have been more pleased.

 

“Tell Molly you don’t want Dahlia.  You  _ don’t _ want her, do you?”  Harry sounded a bit unsure and Charlie moaned with a hard nipple in his mouth.

 

“Alright, I’m going to tell you straight.  It can’t leave this establishment, do you understand?”

 

Harry felt a bit sick.  He tried to ignore the sounds of skin slapping skin and grunts, but it was really fucking difficult.  He didn’t want to be there. He wished he were home with Pansy and Dahlia.

 

“Yes, fine, get on with it!”

 

“I’ve got children everywhere, Harry.  I’m a Weasley. Do you really think I’ve managed to shag for all these years and come away unscathed?  If I was going to claim a child, it would be one of my sons, not one of my younger daughters with a mother like Pansy fucking Parkinson.  Look, I don’t want to  _ have _ daughters.  I want to  _ fuck _ daughters.  Is that clear enough for you?”  Charlie chortled happily and groaned into the neck of the blonde witch that sat on his cock.  

 

* * *

 

Ronald Weasley was a cross between a nervous wreck and a walking disaster.  He’d forgotten to administer the Potion prior to the departure of his Portkey and was thankful he landed hidden near the outskirts of a remote village.  He quickly shed his homespun flannel and boring brown trousers in favour of exotic silks and wool.

 

He felt important and confident.  While he didn’t enjoy the scowl that greeted him in the hand mirror, Ron understood it was necessary.  He walked with a swagger and with every passing moment, he was that much closer to understanding Draco Malfoy, which scared him a little.

 

He recalled Hermione’s lectures over the years as they worked side by side in the Ministry.  How could he properly catch a criminal if he didn’t understand them? He’d thought it was bollocks before, but now, as he traipsed through unfamiliar territories with another wizard’s face, it made sense.

 

Ron knew he was unprepared but there was nothing to be done about it.  His Portkey hadn’t burnt a hole in his pocket for more than a few weeks.  He would have been worried, he probably should have been worried, but his mission consumed him.

 

He wished the Minister or even bloody Snape had given him explicit directions upon his arrival in Prokletije.  Ron refused to refer to them as the Accursed Mountains. It felt sinister and he didn’t like it, not one bit.

 

“Alright, what now?”  Ron muttered.

 

He was painfully aware of his surroundings in Theth, but it seemed the unmade path would lead him toward Boga, according to his map, and he hesitated.  However, that hesitation just so happened to save his life. 

 

Ron didn’t flinch when a ragged and wiry man burst through the foliage.  The man’s eyes were wide and Ron spotted a wand tightly clenched in the man’s fist.  The man seemingly snarled and lunged for him.

 

“Avada Kedavra!”  An angry voice shouted.  “Oi, Malfoy, you’ve arrived just in time.”

 

Ron nodded curtly and sneered at the unfamiliar fallen wizard.  He was surprised to note he didn’t feel unsettled. He didn’t feel ill.  He didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel anything at all.

 

He walked toward the tall, gangly, dark-haired wizard and nearly smiled when he realised he had a bit of a swagger to his steps.  Instead, he crouched beside the wizard and crinkled his nose in distaste.

 

“Planning on leaving him here then?”  asked Ron haughtily.

 

“It’s not my fucking job to take out the trash, Malfoy.  It isn’t yours either,” Theodore Nott scoffed and kicked the dead man.  “Greyback will eat him if we’re lucky, less mess that way. Come on then, it’s getting dark.”

 

Theo frowned at the rucksack on his mate’s shoulder, yet remained silent.  He hadn’t seen the man in nearly two years, things were bound to change. It seemed Malfoy was quieter and even had a trace of compassion, which was unsettling the longer he thought about it.

 

Ron wasn’t prepared for a ridiculously long walk in the woods.  After the months spent in the Forest of Dean with Harry and Hermione, he didn’t much care for the outdoors.  He bit back multiple moans and laments. Draco Malfoy wouldn’t have complained about it, therefore neither could he.

 

“Blue Eye Lake,”  Theo spat. “Rest here for a bit.  It’s obvious you’ve let yourself go.”

 

Ron snorted and remained silent.  It was quite pretty as far as bodies of water were concerned.  Light sounds of conversation drifted toward them and set Ron on edge.  He nearly reached into the interior pocket of his wool blazer, but Theo shook his head.

 

“Muggles,”  Theo whispered.  “Come on, it’ll be dark soon, best not dally.”

 

The further they walked the faster Theo moved.  He drifted around fallen tree limbs as though it were second nature.  He didn’t enjoy being outside the camp once nightfall hit. There were entirely too many things that went bump in the night, not to mention the curious Muggles.

 

He didn’t usually see them passed the Blue Eye Lake, but it was better to remain vigilant than complacent.  He didn’t understand the tense silence between him and Malfoy. They’d always had banter, but now he warranted nothing more than a grunt.  It was ludicrous, or it would have been if Theo hadn’t recalled the passing of Lucius.

 

“I know you hated him and all, but he was your father.  If you ever need to,” Theo paused and struggled with the emotionalism of the moment.  He didn’t have the chance to complete the thought.

 

“What the fuck is that?”  Ron hissed and quickly yanked Theo behind a nearby tree thick with foliage.

 

Theo squinted into the waning light and huddled into the warmth of his flannel lined overcoat.  The days were growing cold and he hated the winters on the mountain. He just wanted to go home, but he couldn’t, thanks to his fucking father.

 

Ron quirked his head and smiled at the squeaker that trotted along the craggy path.  He’d never seen an animal like it and he squatted when it drew near. It sort of reminded him of a chipmunk, but much larger.  He turned to Theo, but the gangly wizard was relieving himself against a tree.

 

“Don’t touch it, Malfoy!”  Theo shouted over his shoulder the very second he saw the baby boar.  He knew better than anyone that the mother was never far behind and he was absolutely right.

 

Ron stood up quickly and wondered what sort of madness was hidden in these fucking cursed mountains.  It was a beast of an animal and it sounded angry. It looked angry and Ron forgot he was a wizard.

 

Theo’s lips parted in astonishment as he tucked his cock back into his trousers.  He blinked rapidly and snorted in sort of amusement. It wasn’t every day one could say they’d seen the Malfoy heir shriek in high pitched tones and scramble through the fucking forest.

 

“Did you forget you’re a wizard?!”  Theo shouted and drew his wand. It was a flick of his wrist and the bloody angry boar fell over.  He considered bringing it back to camp, but he felt a bit sorry for the tiny squeaker.

 

“Hairy pig!”  Ron shouted and clasped his hand over his heart.  “It’s a fucking hairy pig, an angry, hairy, pig. I’m fucking traumatised.”

 

“Ah yes, there’s the notorious prima donna I know and tolerate,”  Theo chortled and trotted to his mate’s side.

 

“It nearly killed me!”

 

“Yeah, that’s what you said about the horse with feathers too.  Let’s go then, we’re nearly there.” Theo shook his head and shoved his hands into his pockets.

 

“Is everything prepared?”  Ron asked, rather than focus on the giant hairy pig that had nearly mauled him to death.

 

“Are you barmy?  What the fuck, Malfoy?  Of course, everything is prepared.  The Greengrass sisters are in your lodging.  Pansy declined the invitation, but that’s no surprise there.  She’s shagging Potter if you can believe it. I’d be angry with her, but she’s got her kid,”  Theo shrugged.

 

“Cute kid,”  Ron offered and realised his faux pas immediately.

 

He narrowed his grey eyes and stared into the distance rather than chance a glance at Theo.  Theo quirked his head and smiled. He hated being stashed in Albania, in the fucking mountains no less, because of his father.  If anyone deserved to soften, it was Draco Malfoy.

 

“Figures you’d have met her,”  Theo laughed. “How’d that happen?”

 

“My father died.”

 

Ron delivered the statement in a completely apathetic manner, even though the words stuck in his throat.  He’d hated Lucius Malfoy, always had. He wasn’t the least bit sorry the old codger was dead and from the way Severus Snape had shared the tale, neither was Malfoy.  It wasn’t nearly as difficult to pretend to be Draco Malfoy as Ron thought it would be until they walked into camp.

 

The conditions were abysmal.  If Ron could have discovered a word that meant worse than that, he would have.  He had always imagined the escaped Death Eaters living in splendour, surrounded by their riches and an endless supply of spirits; however, the reality was grim.  He managed to maintain his composure and Theo looked so proud, Ron knew he couldn’t ruin it. 

 

“Yours is over there.  It’s the nicest one we’ve got.”  Theo pointed excitedly toward a shabby looking tent that reminded Ron of his father’s.

 

“I’ve brought supplies,”  Ron offered and thrust the rucksack into Theo’s stomach.

 

“Fantastic!  We’ll sort that out later.  Your gifts are waiting for your arrival.  You can’t disappoint them.”

 

Theodore Nott winked and tossed the sack to a wizard that couldn’t have been more than twelve.  Ron hated to see the kid here like this. Nobody should be forced to live like this and he felt conflicted about it.  He wasn’t supposed to sympathise with Death Eaters, but it was just a boy. Gods, they were all just boys at one point, weren’t they?  


	13. Perplexity

 

 

Draco woke to the sounds of sobs masked by flowing water.  It wasn’t how he wanted to begin his day. He’d have preferred his witch snuggled into his side and a quick shag before coffee rather than deal with tears.  

 

He swung his feet to the icy floor and rubbed his eyes sleepily.  He listened carefully and the taps had ceased only to be replaced with happy sighs.  He could work with happy sighs and a lazy bath did sound enticing.

 

“Mistress was distraught, Master,”  Benedict shuffled slowly into the bedroom and bowed his head with a quiver.  “Benedict offered a tray of tea and her special Potion to aid her spirits.”

 

“Special Potion?”  Draco inquired curiously.  “I’m going to need you to explain, Benedict.”

 

“Benedict finds them in the cupboard.  Benedicts sniffs them and finds the Baby Potion, the Happy Potion, and the Sleepy Potion.  Benedict heard Mistress and Benedict likes it when Mistress is happy. It makes Master happy.”  The elf quivered slightly, but he stood his ground.

 

Draco nodded curtly and dismissed the elf with a wave.  From the delectable sighs, it seemed her Potion had improved her mood effectively.  Draco smirked and slipped on his thick cashmere robe with a shiver. 

 

While Severus had betrayed him, at least the Potions Master had left an impressive stock of Lust Potions.  Draco had absolutely no issue utilising them. He would do whatever was necessary to ensure Hermione never wished to leave.  The Fertility Potion would be used in due time and he was giddy with excitement to know her Contraception Potion was no longer an issue.

 

He quietly entered the expansive bathroom and simply watched.  The bathing tub was impressively large but not as large as the Prefect’s bathroom at Hogwarts.  He smiled as she floated on her back and the bubbles surrounded her.

 

“Having fun?”  he teased and dropped his robe to the floor.

 

“I was.”  Hermione snapped and sunk beneath the hot water.

 

Draco stared at her hard while he shoved his lounge pants off his hips.  She blinked and her breaths increased as her eyes roved his bare chest hungrily.  She shook her head and backed into the corner when he was completely nude.

 

“We could change that if you like,”  he offered and stepped over the side.

 

Hermione ached from head to toe.  She held her breath as he descended the steps and she dug her fingers into her thighs.  She bit her bottom lip hard, to keep the moan at bay.

 

“Y-you stay away from me.”

 

Hermione wedged into the corner and closed her eyes against the heated assault of grey eyes.  She pressed her thighs together and sunk into the water to her neck. It didn’t ease the ache in the least.

 

“Why would I want to do that?”

 

Draco braced his arms on either side of her and chuckled lightly when she stood. He leant into her and licked the outer shell of her ear.  Her eyes remained closed, but her head dropped as her back arched almost as though she were offering herself to him.

 

“It’s a L-Lust Potion, isn’t it?”  She groaned. “Please don’t touch me,”  she begged.

 

“Alright,”  Draco breathed into her sodden hair.  “Why don’t  _ you _ touch  _ me _ ?”

 

“I can’t,”  Hermione moaned.

 

She didn’t fight the gentle hand that stroked her wrist.  She knew what he was going to do and she wanted to say she didn’t want to touch him.  She wanted to say she didn’t want to feel him filling her. She wanted to say she didn’t want his hard body to crash into hers, but she didn’t want to lie, not even to herself.

 

Hermione’s fingertips grazed over his hard cock and she whimpered.  He closed her hand around his erection and released it. His body was wracked with a shudder as she stroked him of her own volition.  His hips rocked in time with her strokes and he panted in her ear.

 

“Yess, just like that, fuck you’re such a good girl,”  Draco rasped. “Do you want me to touch you? Tell me. Do you want me to lap at your cunt?  How about a spanking? Would you like that? I’ve a paddle just for your hot arse. Would you like me to pinken your arse before I fuck you?”

 

“Yes,”  she hissed and dragged his head to her lips.  He evaded her with a smirk and tore her hand from his cock just before he twisted her hands behind her back.

 

“Tell me,”  he demanded.

 

Hermione stared up at him in a lust filled haze.  She didn’t understand why he was tormenting her. He knew she needed it.  She craved it and he was denying her. She squirmed and sought relief as her breasts pressed into his slick chest.  

 

“All of it.  I need all of it.  Give me all of it,”  Hermione pleaded in desperation.

 

“Hmm, what will you give me for it?”  Draco released her and turned his back.

 

He climbed from the bathing tub and glanced over his shoulder.  Her eyes were wild. Her entire body was covered in a pink flush.  It didn’t matter that Hermione Granger would never beg him if given the chance.  The Potion gave him what he wanted and it was a pleasure to watch her chase after him.

 

Draco lifted her from the tub and he could feel the heat roll off her body.  He slowly dragged her wet body down his and listened to her throaty moan when his thigh grazed her sex.  He kissed her, lightly, without tongue until she shook against him.

 

“Whatever you want.  Whatever you want you can have it.  Please, you can’t leave me like this, you can’t,”  Hermione cried and thrust his hand between her legs.

 

“Why don’t you assume the position while I decide?”  Draco crooned and stroked her lightly.

 

She was beyond willing to please him.  She was deliciously pliant. He could have requested anything of her and she would have given it just for the sake of pleasure.  He’d never seen any witch respond to a Lust Potion this way and it pleased him beyond measure.

 

Draco towelled dry slowly to elongate her frustration.  She had raced for the bedroom and he couldn’t wait to see her perfectly presented.  He knew Benedict would not interrupt them. The elf knew better, but Draco made note to thank Benedict for his interference.  He was  _ ever _ so grateful.

 

He couldn’t have been more pleased when he stepped into the bedroom.  Hermione was naked and on her stomach. Her knees were propped beneath her arse and her abdomen splayed across the heavenly soft triangular pillow he had purchased for specifically this reason.  Her arms were stretched over her head and her hands were fisted in the white sheets while her thighs were spread wide.

 

Draco retrieved the wooden paddle from the nightstand drawer and stood behind her.  He slapped it against his palm just to watch her skin pebble. He licked his lips as she squirmed against the sheets and swung.

 

“Yes,”  she moaned and buried her face against her arm.  The pleasure mixed with pain brought her eerily close to explosive heights with every slap of wood against her arse, until he stopped, to her displeasure.  “No, why did you stop?”

 

Draco bent and swiped his tongue across her sex just to listen to her squeal and watch her toes curl.  He caressed the red splotches on her arse and even massaged her lower back. She was near desperate, which is just where he wanted her.

 

“Whatever I want, is that right?”  Draco whispered gently against her quivering bundle of nerves.

 

“Yes!  Whatever you want!”  Hermione was near tears with frustration and valiantly tried to push back against his teasing tongue.

 

“Marry me,”  Draco crooned and dipped his tongue between her folds.

 

“That’s not, that’s not fair,” she cried.

 

Draco stood, leant over her, and kissed her neck.  Her damp hair brushed his cheek and she shivered while her body hummed.  His hand traversed the landscape and teased the sides of her breasts. He lightly caressed her spine, squeezed her bum, and ghosted across her sex until he could see the tears on her cheek.

 

“You said whatever I want, love.”  Draco placed open mouth kisses along her jaw until he met her lips.  She whimpered and moaned with every feather-light touch. “Would you care for a bit of relief?  I can bring you to the heights of pleasure, just say the word.” 

 

It wasn’t fair.  Hermione knew it wasn’t fair.  She couldn’t clear her head. She could only feel.  She knew she was being manipulated. She  _ knew _ it and yet she wanted relief more than anything else.  She felt the magicks in the bed. She knew she was trapped and Draco would keep her riding the edge of oblivion until she agreed. 

 

It was only words, wasn’t it?  She didn’t have to mean them. She didn’t have to see it through.  She’s Hermione Granger, she’d find a way out of whatever involuntary promises she’d been coerced into making.  

 

The Ministry would stand behind her.  She was a war heroine. She was a Prisoner of War.  They wouldn’t wash their hands of her once her task was done.  She was brilliant and well respected. She was not a bargaining chip in their political endeavours.  She would prevail.

 

“Yes,”  Hermione mewled.

 

Draco smiled against her cheek and finally climbed up behind her.  The needy reverberations that emanated from her parted lips made it difficult for him to concentrate.  He grasped her left hip in one hand and teased her sex with the head of his cock.

 

“Yes, what?”  Draco asked with a harsh slap to her sore bum.

 

“I’ll marry you,”  her hiss segued into a moan when he finally sunk into her.

 

“Good girl,”  he hummed. “On the eve of the new year, that’s when I’ll make you mine.”

 

The lazy thrusts were driving her mad.  They soothed the ache, but not nearly enough.  The peak of satisfaction was still out of reach and she cried out in frustration.

 

“The Order tried to circumvent the Accords,” he casually informed her as he yanked on her hips harshly and increased his pace.  “They probably colluded with Severus Snape.”

 

“Wh-what?”  She asked distractedly as the first quiver of her release tightened in her belly.

 

“Snape, love.  He facilitated the agreements.  It was, fuck yes, his suggestion to administer a Potion for your nerves.  I really should have checked, but I trusted him,” Draco grunted as he watched her arse bounce with the force of his thrusts.

 

“C-calming Draught?”  Hermione managed to mumble as she arched her back.

 

“Hmm yes, fuck, you feel so good,”  he gasped, “Snape switched it for a Contraception Potion.”  Draco twisted his left hand into her mussed curls and pulled hard.  “Don’t worry, love. There’ll be no more of that.”

 

Hermione had endless questions, but it was impossible to focus.  The milky haze of lust was waning, but it didn’t stop her from chasing the high.  She clenched down on him and gasped when he slapped her arse. Her toes curled, her legs trembled and even her neck ached.  Her entire body thrummed as he slammed into her until finally, she was shouting in great gasps.

 

Draco quickly flipped Hermione onto her back and plunged into her welcoming depths again.  She winced at the awkward position until he suckled her breasts. She keened with every tug on her sensitive nipples combined with the feel of his cock.  

 

She hated when they finished together.  It felt entirely too intimate and she swore he knew that.  It had become more and more difficult for her to separate the act of intercourse from emotional attachment, especially when he whispered words of love in her ear.

 

Draco ensured her pleasure and loved the way she fluttered around him.  His thumb pressed against her sore sweet spot until she shook. He drew her left nipple between his teeth and tugged just as he spilt into her with a satisfied groan.  Hermione jerked beneath him and her cry was lost against his lips.

 

“I’m not ready to have children,”  Hermione rationalized the moment she could draw a proper breath.

 

Draco’s arms shook as he valiantly tried to keep himself aloft.  He trembled from head to toe and as much as he wanted to stay exactly where he was, he flopped beside her.  He knew she’d be sore and that’s exactly what he wanted. He planned to set off the Portkey one last time. He’d give them a final goodbye, not that they would know it, and then she would be his, forever.

 

“You will be, love,”  Draco sighed. “I’ve got some business to attend at the Ministry tomorrow.  I’ll be sure to stop by my family vault for my grandmother’s ring. It wasn’t opulent enough for my mother, but it should suit your tastes.”

 

Hermione folded her hands and set them on her ribs.  She stared at the ceiling and licked her lips while she ignored the proof of their sexual escapades between her legs.  She didn’t flinch when Draco lovingly caressed her abdomen.

 

She knew he wanted children.  She knew he wanted them with her, but she didn’t understand why.  She didn’t understand his obsession. She was kind to him a handful of times and this was the result?

 

“You were serious,”  she stated lifelessly.  “It’s unconscionable to expect me to marry you under such circumstances.  I can’t possibly be expected to fulfil promises made under duress.”

 

Hermione was quite proud of herself for being assertive.  She’d lost bits and pieces of herself along the way, but she was not going to idly stand by while Draco Malfoy demanded matrimony and procreation.  It was utterly ludicrous and even Prisoners of War had bloody rights, didn’t they?

 

“The spell will release you at half past the hour.  You should have time to shower and dress before your Representative visit.”  Draco yawned and stretched before he vacated the comfort of what he considered their bed.  Hermione missed the fleeting smirk and pounded her fist on the feather tick. “Your wardrobe has been filled with robes befitting a Malfoy.  We’ll discuss the particulars of the nuptials when I return.”

 

Draco cast a lingering gaze even as she slowly dragged the wrinkled white sheet over her body.  He didn’t miss the glint of appreciation that lit her coffee eyes as she perused his nudity. He knew she was in the midst of a battle within, but he knew he’d prevail.  He always did. 

 

* * *

 

Harry Potter wiped his hands down his face so many times his cheeks were raw.  He felt assaulted. He was definitely traumatised. He couldn’t tell a soul. He could never tell a soul.  He felt ill and terrified all at once.

 

He thought he knew the wayward Charlie Weasley.  He thought, well Harry didn’t know what he thought anymore.  He realised he didn’t know the man as well as he thought he did, or even at all.  

 

“You get used to it,”  Percy Weasley interjected while he washed his hands.

 

“I don’t want to get used to it!”  Harry snapped.

 

He had escaped to the men’s room for some peace and quiet, to clear his mind, to erase the images and sounds burned into his memory.  He knew he’d never look at Charlie the same again and he hoped against hope the man would return to Romania posthaste. He wondered what other sort of predilections the Weasley brothers hid from their mother and was suddenly violently ill.

 

“I was expecting that,”  Percy sighed and kindly rubbed Harry’s back.  “I’ve done the best I could. I reacted much the way you did when I found out.  It was much worse then.”

 

“Why?  Was your brother shagging a woman of leisure at the time?”  Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and sighed.

 

“The Magic Wand doesn’t employ underage witches.  They cater to their clientele. I checked thoroughly before I even suggested Charlie walk through their doors.  He did exactly what the Madam expected him to do. Genette is an accomplished actress and she’s a few years older than you Harry, not that anyone can tell.”  Percy flicked his wand and locked the lavatory door. He knew their conversation required privacy and the Ministry was probably the safest place at the moment.

 

“Do all of you prefer witches much younger?”  Harry winced, but he had to know.

 

Percy sighed and questioned everything he knew about himself, about his family.  He wondered if his father knew of the deep dark secret, his son’s withheld. It wasn’t all of the boys, at least Percy didn’t believe it to be so.  He knew Bill and Charlie were deeply affected and even Percy himself had moments. He supposed it was as good a time as any to confess to Harry Potter.

 

“We’ve never been close, have we Harry?”  Percy studied the younger wizard carefully and schooled his features into steady apathy.  “No, don’t apologise, it isn’t, it wasn’t your fault. Apparently, as Audrey likes to tell me, I’m an acquired taste.  I’ve also discovered if a person is drawn to the twins or even Ron, there isn’t a point in pursuing any sort of—“

 

“You have to admit, you’ve always been a bit stuffy,”  Harry interrupted quickly. “I suspect you don’t really wish to discuss all the reasons we haven’t been closer over the years.”

 

Percy studied his prized basilisk boots and noted a scuff on the tip.  He frowned and hoped they wouldn’t require mending. It was his only frivolous purchase and only his wife was aware of the cost involved.  He knew his brothers would mock him mercilessly, but those exotic boots made him feel loads better about himself.

 

“Basilisk skin is an incredibly rare find, did you know that?”  Percy adjusted his horn-rimmed spectacles and resisted the urge to grasp his double-breasted lapel with both hands.  “It’s the silliest thing really, but before all that upset during the War, Fred and I had a conversation. We had many conversations, but it wasn’t often we spoke without George or even Ron hovering about.  They liked to mock me more often than not, but sometimes,” Percy sighed. 

 

Harry didn’t groan.  He was tempted, ridiculously tempted, but he kept that concerned look on his face that he had perfected over the years.  Mentally, he might have been rolling his eyes or even imagining his hands around Percy’s neck, but that didn’t matter. The only thing that was important was the outward appearances.  Percy Weasley had taught him that.

 

“I asked Fred what he was going to do once all the nasty business with Vol-Voldemort was said and done,”  Percy smiled softly and Harry couldn’t recall ever seeing the stuffy Weasley ever smile before that very moment.  “He smiled and said I’m going to buy me a pair of basilisk boots. I thought it was rather strange at the time, but afterwards, well, Fred was gone and I was determined to do just that.”

 

“This is all really, really interesting, Perce-“  Harry managed not to yawn, just barely.

 

“Just shut up, would you?  I did a fair amount of travelling and I stumbled across an old friend of yours.  She was entirely too young for me, at least in my head. She wound up older than I first believed, but even so, it was a precarious slope.  She was quite the little free spirit and I succumbed to her charms in a field of poppies. She smiled when all was said and done and muttered something about Nargles?  I’m not quite sure, but you see, Harry, I worried, understandably so, but then I met Audrey.”

 

Harry’s head hurt quite a lot really.  It was a lot of information to absorb. He struggled with the idea of Percy Weasley and Luna Lovegood naked in a field of flowers and shook his head to destroy the imagery.

 

“Wait,”  Harry gasped as understanding settled into his muddled mind.  “You believe it’s a genetic sort of thing, don’t you?”   
  


"Love Potions are curious, aren't they?  There's no telling what the happens to the offspring, is there?  The stories my mother could tell..."  
  


"Stop, please Percy, no more."  Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his stomach thoroughly displeased.  
  


Percy sagged in relief against the tile wall, completely unconcerned with the lingering odours or germs that contaminated his favourite blazer.  It was no longer a secret contained in his darkest thoughts before sleep finally claimed him. It was terrifying to share it, though he had to admit, Percy was impressed Harry had come to the obvious conclusion so quickly.  Usually, he relied on Hermione for such things, but—

 

“Is Hermione truly a Prisoner of War?  What can you tell me about that?” Percy’s brow furrowed heavily and it made him look much older than his years.

 

“I’ll make you a deal, Percy,”  Harry’s green eyes sparkled and suddenly, Percy was slightly nervous.  It never did bode well when the Boy Who Lived smirked. “You get Charlie to relinquish his rights to Dahlia, in the proper manner, with documentation mind you, and I’ll tell you everything you’d like to know about Hermione and Ron for that matter.”

 

Percy weighed his options.  He wanted to remain detrimentally devoted to his brother.  It has always been his self-appointed job. Someone had to do it and Bill wasn’t interested, which logically speaking, caused the responsibility fall his shoulders.  

 

He’d always prided himself on his ability to be logical when the situation warranted it.  Percy knew he was intelligent and often lamented his Sorting to Gryffindor. He would have flourished in Ravenclaw.  He knew he would have, but for his familial obligations to continue the traditions and he did love his family.

 

“Do think that’s best for the little girl?”  Percy hedged. He wasn’t prepared to make such a life-altering decision, not yet.

 

“Dahlia Parkinson is three years old.  She’s never known her birth father, just as I never knew mine.  She’s watched other children frolic about with their families and asked her mother where her daddy was the moment she could deduce she hadn’t one.  Mrs Travers took it upon herself to speak to your mother and your mother turned her away. Owls were sent and returned unopened. I’ve a drawer full of them if you’d like to verify that yourself,”  Harry scratched his head and Percy pretended he didn’t see the unruly black strands stand at attention. “I’ve been with them, with Pansy and Dahlia nearly as long as Hermione’s been gone. I love them.  They’re my family. If I thought for one fucking minute that Dahlia would be better off with Charlie in her life, I wouldn’t hesitate to drag his arse to Grimmauld Place, but he doesn’t want to be a father, Percy.  He’s got, he’s got—“

 

“Other children,”  Percy whispered as the guilt filled his chest cavity and he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.  “I know you’re right. I just, I’d like to know her. I’d like her to know her cousins, Audrey’s expecting again and Molly isn’t much younger than Dahlia.”

 

Harry shoved his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and considered the request.  He’d have to discuss it with Pansy, that much was a given. He knew she wouldn’t embrace the idea, but as long as Pansy knew the Weasleys weren’t going to take her daughter, she might consider it.

 

“I’ll speak with Pansy.”

 

Percy abruptly stood straighter and grasped the lapels of his blazer with both hands.  Harry’s lips twitched and it was only then he realised it was Percy’s coping mechanism.  Whenever the man was irritated, anxious, angry, or even relieved, Percy held his bloody lapels.

 

“I’ll await your owl.”  Percy nodded in that stiff sort of manner that had always been his and left Harry to stand in the men’s room.

 

Harry placed his palms against the cool tile and closed his eyes.  He was still reeling from the new information Percy had shared. He couldn’t believe Percy knew.  Percy Weasley knew his brother was the sort of wizard mums warned their daughters about and still, Percy protected him.  Harry couldn’t decide if that was exceedingly loyal or ridiculously stupid. In the end, Harry decided it was a bit of both, not that he could blame the man.  

 

Family.  Family was everything.  Harry had finally created the family he had craved, yearned for, his entire life.  He would be damned if he let anyone tear it asunder, not even his surrogate mother.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Complexity

Astoria Greengrass was ridiculously bored with her life in the Albanian Alps.  She was a refined, elegant, perfectly bred witch of the purest of lines. She was not meant to wither away in drafty magical tents with the stench of freshly roasted boar singeing her nostrils.

 

She dreamt of lavish dwellings and exotic silks.  She yearned for riches beyond measure and the sort of life that would make her older sister green with envy.  It wasn’t fair for her to be punished along with her parents. She’d had nothing to do with the War. She had been entirely too young to know any better and yet, she had been abruptly uprooted from her family home.

 

Astoria had it from good authority no less, that Draco Malfoy was finally going to make an appearance.  She was nearly giddy with excitement, not that she would stoop quite so low. It was considered uncouth to express her distaste or delight when surrounded by acquaintances. 

 

She had cast a Muffliato and jumped up and down in adolescent excitement.  Her sister had a tendency to reprimand Astoria for her immaturity, but their parents had never seemed to mind.  Astoria knew her father was indulgent and used it to the best of her ability, but it hadn’t mattered when Albania loomed on the horizon.

 

“You’re wearing your best robes I see.”

 

Daphne Greengrass whisked into her family’s dwelling with an air of superiority laced with a confidence that Astoria had never managed to perfect.  It was a source of contention between the sisters, as many things were. Daphne had neither the time nor the inclination to entertain her younger sisters idle chatter.

 

“Mother didn’t mention your visit.”  Astoria paused in her preening to toss her long dark hair over her shoulder and sneer in her sister’s direction.

 

“I haven’t seen her yet.  I hadn’t time to send an owl.”  Daphne fluffed her burgundy tresses and groaned when she spied the flecks of mud that clung to the bottom of her favourite maroon robes.

 

“I heard that—“

 

“Stori, I know,”  Daphne rolled her eyes heavenward.  “I work for the bloody Minister for Magic.  Gods, I shouldn’t even be here. I could lose my job.  I could lose my flat. I could lose fucking everything and still, I came when Nott beckoned.  I doubt there is anything you could tell me that I don’t already know.”

 

Astoria ignored her sister’s dramatics with a huff and smoothed the invisible wrinkles in her Slytherin green robes.  She fingered her silver snake pendant and wished her father had purchased her the emerald earrings. It was a simple request and it completed her ensemble, but for once, her father disagreed.  Astoria knew it was her mother’s doing and had slighted the woman ever since.

 

“I don’t understand why you feel the need to live a life so pedestrian.  We are one of the oldest Wizarding Families, Daphne. We are Sacred Twenty-Eight for Salazar’s sake and it’s completely unseemly for you to be working beneath that man.”

 

Daphne clenched her fingers into a fist and glowered at her younger sister.  She closed her light blue eyes and recalled the promises she had made. Her father had begged her not to incite Astoria, but the spoilt little bitch really deserved a good lashing.

 

“What choice is there?”  Daphne hissed. “Do you think you’re living here simply to escape the Ministry’s punishments?  Do you honestly believe we’re still wealthy beyond measure and live in these frigid mountains for pleasure?  Who do you think purchased your fucking robes because I can assure you, it wasn’t Father. Half my Ministry pay goes to our parents and it still isn’t enough because spoilt little Astoria wants all the pleasures.  Do you think I  _ want _ to work for the Ministry?  I would have accepted nearly any employment!  No one would hire me because of my name! Kingsley Shacklebolt took a chance on me and now I hold a position that only one wizard held before me and he was a ponce!  I am mocked on a daily basis and I do what is necessary to ensure our family’s survival and how do I repay the kindnesses? I betray him by harbouring fugitives. Why do I do this?  Family.” Daphne’s voice wavered but her stance held true.

 

Daphne didn’t expect Astoria to understand.  She was but a child when everything went tits up.  She was still a child in so many ways and it drove Daphne near the brink of insanity.  She blamed her parent’s over-indulgences.

 

“Is that why daddy wouldn’t let me have the matching earrings?”  Astoria pouted and didn’t quite understand why her sister vacated the dwelling with an enraged shriek.

 

“Move it, Stori!”  Theodore Nott growled from the entrance.

 

“Do you think he’ll like it?”  Astoria preened for a moment and basked in Theo’s perusal.

 

“I don’t care.  Get your arse to his.  I’ve got to collect him.”  

 

Theodore hadn’t the time nor the inclination to dally with the younger Greengrass sister.  He’d never enjoyed insipid little wenches and he wasn’t about to entertain the possibilities.  He couldn’t even pretend he knew the Malfoy heir was finally coming to Albania. He’d simply assumed as much when he received an owl with instructions and Theo did love instructions.

 

He wasn’t the sort of wizard that led.  He was a follower through and through, which was probably why he was trapped in his current predicament.  He wasn’t necessarily a follower of the Dark Lord, but he hadn’t fought against him either. He had mindlessly done what he was told without even considering the consequences of his actions.  It was quite the personality flaw, but he accepted it.

 

Theo wasn’t fond of Albania, but it was better than Azkaban.  He was absolutely positive he would have landed in the cell next to his father.  He hadn’t the wealth, the influence, or the connections to assure otherwise. He wasn’t bloody Malfoy.  He wasn’t Zabini. He was Theodore Nott, son of a Death Eater that just so happened to voice his displeasure with the fall of Voldemort.  Theo hadn’t a chance when faced with odds such as that and he knew it.

 

He didn’t mind the jaunt to the tiny village of Theth.  He didn’t even mind the Muggles. Theo would never voice that to his father, but it was true.  They were always kind to him, even if they looked at him curiously. They were helpful when he took the wrong trails and they warned him about the wild boar in the area.

 

He’d even wandered down to Boga and it was incredibly freeing.  It was treacherous, but only due to the fear of discovery. In fact, he’d stammered and nearly blushed when his father had confronted him on his whereabouts.  He’d hissed out Daphne’s name and, thankfully, his father had accepted it.

 

Theo wasn’t the least bit interested in Daphne, but she was more than willing to allow her name to be sullied on his behalf.  She was the only person he entrusted with his secret. She wouldn’t betray him. She had secrets of her own and Theo had no issue with using them against her if necessary.

 

Theo paused and crouched near a cluster of trees.  His hearing was attuned to unnatural sounds in the wood and he swore he had heard heavy breathing.  It was followed by a muted curse and a hard thump against the moist ground. His heart thumped against his ribcage as he stepped into the small clearing and then it soared.

 

“You’re here,”  he whispered.

 

Theo scampered through the leaves and caught her against him with a sigh.  She squealed, just the way he knew she would and he smiled. It was utter and complete foolishness, but he didn’t care.  It was likely to get him or even her killed, but despite their differences, she made his heart sing.

 

“I told you I would come.  I don’t know why you’re so surprised by it.”  She pushed against his chest and deftly avoided his lips.  “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”

 

“You say that every time, but it doesn’t seem to stop you.”  Theo invaded her space until she grunted as her back struck a boulder.

 

He stared into her bright brown eyes and he couldn’t help but allow his gaze to flick to her pale pink lips.  His calloused left hand sat on her bony hip and his right cast a Warming Charm. He plucked open the ties of her worn black cloak and lingered near her collarbone.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Her voice was breathy and gods, he loved it.  Theo carefully calculated each movement. He was aware of her rigidity and he didn’t want to scare her.  He’d managed that the last three times she’d paid him a visit, but he didn’t know how much more he could take.

 

She was skittish, understandably so, considering whom she was and where he currently lived.  He’d stumbled across her one evening when he’d snuck away from camp. He decided it was in his best interest to explore his surroundings.

 

From what she had said, her thoughts were much the same.  It had taken Theo days to reach Niš. He was fairly well prepared with his rucksack and his wand, but even so, it was quite the adventure.  He wanted to do something more than babysit pampered purebloods. He wanted to see more of the world than the inside of his magically enhanced dwelling while dreaming of Diagon Alley.

 

The scruff on his chin disguised him well enough and it took a few pints before she even suspected he was someone she might know.  She told him all about her Portkey from Vatra Dornei and her older brother, not that he cared. He was entranced by the vestiges of sadness in her eyes and her muted laughter.  He liked the scent of her hair as it was unlike anything he’d ever encountered.

 

She blushed when he asked her what it was and she mumbled  _ homemade soap _ into his shoulder.  She was everything he shouldn’t want but did.  She was dangerous. One wrong word and it could be the death of him, but then she smiled and he was wrecked.  

 

“Seducing you,”  Theo murmured against her jawline.

 

“Oh,”  she sighed and her head struck the boulder in her efforts to catch her breath.  “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

 

Theo’s dark hair brushed against the side of her throat and his warm lips soon followed.  It was difficult for her to think with the delicate kisses and soft tongue swipes distracting her.  She was stronger, she wanted to be stronger, but she faltered.

 

He didn’t push aside the heavy fabric of her open cloak.  Instead, Theo slipped his hands inside and splayed his fingers along her ribs.  He teased her earlobe with gentle nips of his teeth. Theo drew back slightly and smiled at the glassy sheen in her brown eyes.

 

She didn’t slap his hands away when he began pushing white buttons through the holes in her white blouse.  It was daring to allow him such overtures, even in the middle of bloody nowhere with only the trees to see their deeds.  It was exciting, the way his hands trembled when he finally cupped her cotton covered breasts and her skin tingled. It was torture when his lips grazed hers while he tugged and squeezed and caressed.

 

It was easy to let him take control of the situation.  It was ridiculously easy to release the reins and simply feel.  She’d never done that before and it was nearly as thrilling as flying into the clouds on her favourite broom.  Even when his tongue pushed between her lips, she did not battle for dominance and sagged against the boulder. 

 

She felt her nipples harden in the brisk air as he tugged down the cups of her bra.  It was scandalous and she loved it.  She clung to him even when she felt his right hand slide along her bare thigh. The way he manoeuvred his thin frame between her legs forced a light moan from between her plump lips.

 

Her fingers tightened in his hair while his teeth tugged against her sensitive nipples and she barely noticed when he tugged on her knickers.  She’d never felt anything remotely close to the soaring heights of pleasure he evoked in her. Her head crashed into his shoulder the very second he hissed as his fingers gently investigated the dampness of her sodden knickers.

 

She stiffened when the cotton was pushed to the side, but his gentle crooning in her ear soon had her hips rocking against him in silent demand.  The sensations were nearly overwhelming and she didn’t want them to end. She heard his zipper fall and hadn’t the state of mind to object. 

 

He was quite talented and he used his knowledge to keep her deliciously hovering on the edge of release.  She was nearly frantic with need, which was just what he intended. He wrapped her leg around his hip and pushed into her amidst her low moan.  It was a simple matter to pull her other leg until her arse was firmly sat in his hands.

 

“Perfect,”  he murmured against her lips.

 

“I’m not,”  she gasped. “I’m not on the Potion.”  She managed to utter while she arched against his shallow, achingly slow thrusts.

 

Theo ignored her and focused on her pale breasts as they bounced.  He was quite mesmerized by them. Astoria’s were larger, but these were perfectly pale and delectable.  He dug his fingers into her hips and thrust hard if only to watch her fall over the precipice with a mind-numbingly breathy moan.

 

He watched her brown eyes flutter open and the haze clear from her eyes.  He wanted to see the moment and he wasn’t disappointed. He smirked as she winced while the boulder scratched her back and his cock moved to and fro.  She pushed on his shoulders, her pretty eyes wide in alarm, and that’s exactly what he needed. He spilt into her with a choked groan and wrapped his arms around her to hold her tight.

 

“Where’s my wand?”  She asked nervously.  “Let me down. I need my wand.  I can’t believe you—“

 

Theo laughed darkly against her throat and reached into his pocket.  It was a pretty little ear cuff. Malfoy had made it for him. He liked the way Draco never questioned and simply did.  Theo sought to emulate the man and deftly slid it onto the top of her ear. 

 

She gasped and shivered in his arms, which nearly had him ready to shag her again.  Her hand immediately went to her ear and she tugged at it. It remained still and she whimpered.  She pushed against his chest angrily and his hand closed around her throat.

 

“You needn’t your wand, love,”  Theo squeezed slightly just to watch her gasp.  “I’ve decided if Malfoy can have exactly what he wants, why can’t I?  Your side must think we’re stupid. Did they honestly believe Weasley could properly impersonate Draco fucking Malfoy?  Make sure you tell your lot they’ve a spy and we appreciate it, greatly.”

 

There were a million thoughts racing through her head and the sense of dread built to a crescendo that numbed her in paralytic fear.  He was different. He was so very different. She had believed him. She had wanted to help him and this was what she got for her trouble?

 

She was distracted by the guttural groans nearby and the crashing of heavy feet across scattered rocks.  She wanted to scream until she was hoarse, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. She was trembling in fear with a calloused hand against her throat and wondered if this would be her end.

 

“Nott, you fucking tosser,” Scabior growled with that glint in his eye Theo hated.  “Whoever would have known you’d willingly fuck a blood traitor. Care to share?”

 

Theo flicked his wand and Scabior yelped as the Stinging Hex struck his chest.  There was a darkness in the young wizard’s eyes that while he wouldn’t admit it, frightened him.  He dodged yet another Hex and raced past the duo toward freedom. He’d heard more than he should and wanted nothing more than to murder the impostor before it was discovered in order to claim glory.

 

“Run,”  Theo hissed and Scabior heeded the warning.  “Stay here if you value your life.” Theo kissed Ginny's cheek and left her draped against the boulder while he chased the Death Eater.

 

Theo tore after the man with a glint in his eyes.  He dodged and weaved amidst the trees and laughed as the lightning fast Death Eater cast spells over his shoulder.  He wasn’t the least bit intimidated by fucking Scabior of all wizards. The man was intimidating to a certain extent, but Theo had never fallen under his spell.

 

“Stupefy!”  Scabior shouted, his eyes wild while he stumbled along the rocky path.

 

Theo’s heart rate raced as he realised how close Scabior was to Theth.  The madman couldn’t be allowed to interact with the Muggles. It would be a death sentence for all of them, considering the man’s minuscule tether to sanity.  Theo dug his feet into the dirt and pushed his body to the limit to catch the man.

 

“Avada Kedavra!”  He finally shouted, absolutely furious.  Theo snarled and had half a mind to kick the deceased bastard only to see Draco Malfoy awkwardly standing beside Scabior.  “Oi, Malfoy, you’ve arrived just in time.”

 

* * *

 

The mahogany desk covered in disarray was cleared with a wide sweeping motion and the parchment fluttered in the air while the inkpots crashed to the floor.  The wizard in question slammed his aching fists against the wood and his body shook with barely concealed rage. The crumpled piece of parchment sliced into his palm from the strength of his grip, yet he barely flinched as the specks of blood mixed with the clammy sweat.

 

The irate green-eyed wizard refused to raise his head.  He should have slammed his office door, cast a Silencing Charm and screamed until he was hoarse.  It was an error in judgement and it was entirely too late to be rectified. Instead, he stared at the empty space before him and wondered how long it would take him to remove the ink stains from the carpet.

 

It seemed, from the handful of missives desperately clutched in his hand, the Ministry had decided it was in their best interest to forego the capture of Draco Malfoy.  The heir had considerable influences within the Wizengamot and the old codgers were not willing to risk the loss of the Malfoy investments. 

 

They had held secret sessions, without the presence of Harry Potter, to further their agenda as well as to avoid the inevitable backlash of Harry’s disagreeance.  The Minister for Magic informed the Head Auror that he should consider himself grateful, due to the fact if it weren’t for his name and considerable contributions to the wellbeing of Wizardingkind; he would not have received an owl at all.  Of course, the Minister’s comments were also delivered by owl and Harry Potter’s requests for an audience were ignored without a second thought.

 

“Mr Potter?”  Gawain Robards cautiously entered his Head Auror’s office and refused to reprimand the man for the destruction.

 

“D-do you know what they’ve done?”  Harry spat.

 

Robards sighed and closed the door quietly.  He actually bent and set a hardwood chair upright before he sat on his soft arse.  He folded his hands along the paunch of his middle and compressed his thin lips. His greying brown hair fell into his watery brown eyes and he did not push it away.

 

“As Head of the Auror Office, I was there, Mr Potter,”  Robards tired voice stated. “I’ve plans for you and if you keep agitating the Wizengamot, when I retire they’re going to offer my position to Weasley or Longbottom.  They don’t care that you’re one of the best Aurors to walk these corridors since Alastor Moody. They simply want a bloody name attached and at this point, they’ll take anyone.  It doesn’t necessarily have to be The Boy Who Lived Twice.”

 

“Robards, if the Ministry doesn’t act, we’re going to lose Ron  _ and _ Hermione.”  Harry kicked his leather chair, despite the scolding glare from his superior.

 

“I took a chance on you, Potter,”  Robards grunted and adjusted his frame on the uncomfortable chair as he accidentally kicked an inkpot.  “Kingsley said I was crazy to promote you to Head Auror at your age. He said you were impetuous, impulsive, and dangerous.  He also said you had absolutely no natural instinct to protect yourself and I find myself agreeing with him. However, you’ve a good head on your shoulders and you’ve been instrumental in the capture of many a Dark Wizard.”

 

“Yeah, I have,”  Harry said cockily.  “That’s why you should allow me to investigate this Malfoy nonsense.  If they’re refusing to bring in Draco Malfoy and give him Draught of Living Death, how the fuck is Ron supposed to complete his assignment?!  Not to mention, we haven’t heard from Snape for weeks and we have no idea who actually  _ has _ Hermione.  Why did they agree to this?  We should have received the particulars before we offered her up!”

 

Robards shook his head sadly.  It was obvious the boy still didn’t understand.  He hated to be the one forced to educate Harry, but the Minister was avoiding him for obvious reasons.  Despite everything Harry Potter had learned over the course of his short life, he was still unequivocally loyal, which was a lovely trait really, but it simply did not coincide with the Ministry’s agenda.

 

“Collateral damage, Mr Potter.  Have you heard the term?” Robards asked delicately.

 

Harry’s eyes widened slightly and he flinched as the words washed over him.  He sunk into his leather chair and gripped the armrests with white knuckles. It was one thing to learn that he was expendable.  It was one thing to learn that he was never meant to survive. It was one learn to learn that he was the fucking sacrificial lamb when he was nothing more than a child, but Harry had always believed in what was good, in what was right, and the Ministry was slowly but surely tearing down every belief he’d ever had about them.

 

“I was collateral damage once,”  Harry whispered. “Dumbledore knew for ages what I was, what I was meant to do and he left me to figure it out on my own, yet here I am.  I find it difficult to believe that I’m just supposed to sit idly by while the two people I consider family are in peril. That’s what you’re telling me, isn’t it?  I’m just supposed to give up on them and hope for the best? Do you honestly expect me to adhere to that?” Harry’s anger quickly rose to the surface and his fist slammed against the wood again.

 

“Mr Weasley has infiltrated the Death Eater camp in Albania, but there is a spy in our midst.  They are aware of our plotting. Investigations and interrogations are currently being held with the use of Veritaserum to discover the culprit.  Your appointment is this afternoon. The Dark Lord—“

 

“Voldemort,”  Harry interrupted as Hermione’s words ran through his head.  “Fear of a name—“

 

“Yes, yes Mr Potter, we’re all aware of Ms Granger’s little crusade,”  Robards’ snapped. “Tom Riddle’s head was delivered to the Minister for Magic.  We have no reason to believe he will rise again.  Mr Weasley’s mission is to simply assess the strength of the Death Eater encampment before the Aurors and the Hit Squad are sent to apprehend them.  The Ministry is hopeful this delicate situation will be resolved by Yule.”

 

Robards kept his tone even for the sake of the man seated across from him.  He couldn’t imagine the inner turmoil the boy faced. It certainly didn’t help that he planned to assume responsibility for his girlfriend’s child in the midst of chaos.  Gawain sympathised with Harry to a certain extent. He’d never found anyone to share his life, but he believed if he had, he would have been as fierce as Harry Potter.

 

“His head?  Really? Someone just severed his head?”  Harry baulked.

 

“Tore it off really.  It was quite the mess.”  Robards shuddered and waggled his fingers.

 

“The Ministry is always so quick to believe Riddle isn’t coming back and he always fucking comes back.  Don’t you think this could be yet another ploy?” Harry absently rubbed his scar, which did not escape his superior’s notice.  “What about Snape? How is Ron supposed to receive his shipments if Snape is nowhere to be found? Yeah, I realise I wasn’t supposed to know about that, but I eavesdrop when I can.  What about Hermione? She’s only got a handful of months left, why are you shaking your head? What have you done?”

 

“You give me far too much credit, Potter.”  Robards glanced at the missives that littered the floor and shook his head at the Minister’s cowardice.  “It is reasonable to believe, Severus Snape has been compromised and as such is either in hiding or deceased.  Ronald Weasley has a month’s allotment of Everlasting Polyjuice and a direct Portkey should trouble arise when he’s run out.  Of course, he also has his Representative Portkey and if he confuses them, the consequences could be dire.”

 

Gawain Robards struggled to his feet with a great sigh.  He detested being the bearer of bad news and he was literally counting down the days until his retirement.  He’d had enough of war. He’d had enough of conflict. He’d had enough of sending young men to their deaths under the guise of the greater good.

 

Facts were facts and the Ministry was much more interested in lining their pockets under the illusion of peace than actually procuring peace.  The Wizengamot was still filled with prejudiced pureblood wizards that thought little of the lives of a Blood Traitor and a Muggleborn. It was a sad state of affairs, but there was nothing to be done about it.  Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger were the epitomai of collateral damage.

 

Their contributions to the betterment of Wizardingkind were merely a footnote and if they were lost in the heat of battle along the way, the Wizengamot would breathe a little easier at night.  They never had much patience for upstarts and if Harry Potter wasn’t careful, he would become their next casualty.

 

“You didn’t answer me.”

 

Harry vacated his leather chair and set to task.  It would have been easier to use magic to clean up his mess, but he didn’t.  Hermione constantly flitted through his head and so he cleaned the mess the way he had created it, with his hands.  She would have been proud of him, maybe.

 

“The Designated Gailer has petitioned the Ministry for Ms Granger’s hand in marriage.”  Robards frowned and his heart broke for the shocked wizard on his knees. “It seems, if the Ministry agrees to grant his request, the final horcrux will be delivered prior to the end of the agreement.  I can’t imagine a possible scenario that would cause Ms Granger to agree, but if the Ministry agrees, her thoughts on the matter are inconsequential. As a Prisoner of War, Ms Granger doesn’t have basic wizarding rights, which was yet another piece of regulation Ms Granger sought to dissolve.”

 

“Does she know that?”  Harry yanked on his desk and lurched to his feet, his hair wild.  “Does she know her Gailer will give up the fucking horcrux if she marries him?!”

 

Robards reluctantly reached into the inner pocket of his dark grey blazer and withdrew a packet.  It looked like a stack of parchment tied with a green bow from Harry’s standpoint and he was curious.  Gawain pressed them against his chest in order to dawdle. He didn’t wish to be present when Harry tore through the facetious gift. 

 

“I can’t say for certain, Mr Potter.”  Robards mopped his forehead with a dark blue handkerchief.  He took three steps forward and placed the bundle face down on Harry’s desk.  “These were sent for you last week. Please wait until I’m gone before you look at them.”  Robards patted Harry’s hand until brown met green. “It’s my duty to inform you, your magic has been restricted in light of new evidence.  The Minister feels you might place Mr Weasley and Ms Granger in mortal peril.  The Ministry believes it is in your best interest for you to remain in the country and as such, your Apparition License is suspended. I disagreed with them, but when the Minister for Magic suggests, the Wizengamot agrees; there isn’t much to be done about it.  I’m sorry my boy.”

 

Gawain Robards vacated Harry’s office with a heavy heart.  He hadn’t wanted this. He’d never wanted this. He never would have agreed to the Accords, but he was only the Head of the Auror Office.  He hadn’t any clout. He hadn’t any influences or connections other than his work ethic and it wasn’t enough to secure the lives that Harry Potter held dear.

 

Harry numbly watched the Head of the Auror Office shut the door.  His chest felt tight. His vision was slightly blurred and he was absolutely certain he hadn’t heard the man correctly.  The Ministry couldn’t do that, could they? They couldn’t keep him from rescuing his mates. It was unconscionable. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t the slightest idea where Hermione was actually located.  He would have searched to the ends of the earth to find her. She shouldn’t be forced into matrimony with her fucking captor. What the fuck was wrong with everyone?!

 

“Fuck this,”  Harry spat and waved his wand.

 

The scattered parchment gathered into neat piles and settled onto the edge of his desk.  The inkpots quickly followed and even the quills were arranged in a manner that Hermione would approve.  He didn’t feel guilty about resorting to magic, not when that packet sat on his desk.

 

Harry sat and yanked the bundle toward him.  He tore off the green ribbon and snarled at the elegant script on expensive cardstock.   _ Enjoy, Potter _ .  He flipped over the packet and his stomach rolled.  

 

Photographs.  It was a collection of photographs centred on Hermione.  Hermione sitting at a breakfast table, sipping tea. Hermione sitting on the sofa with a man’s hands on her shoulder.  Hermione with her lips parted while those same hands slipped into her risqué blouse. Hermione sat on an eating table, topless, obviously moaning, while her skirt shifted.  Hermione completely starkers, sat on a wizard, muttering  _ please _ .  Hermione in bed, her fingers entwined with his while he stroked her flat abdomen.  Pale blond hair against Hermione’s cheek, lips moving to cover hers, fingers thrusting between her legs.  Hermione, on her back, her face obscured by pale blond hair, long fingers against her cheek, and those blasted words that nearly sent Harry’s breakfast hurtling from his stomach.

 

_ Love you back. _

 

“Draco Malfoy.”

 

Harry recognised the fucking hair.  He caught a glimpse of the Dark Mark.  He spied the thin white scars on the wizard’s chest when Malfoy flopped beside Hermione.  Draco Malfoy was her Designated Gailer. Draco Malfoy petitioned the fucking Ministry for Hermione’s hand.  Draco Malfoy had stolen her and planned to keep her.

 

With an animalistic roar of unfettered rage, Harry Potter upended his desk and wailed until he was hoarse.

  
  



	15. Fine Lines

 

 

* * *

 

Ron stared at the witches in his dwelling.  He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected this at all.  He believed Nott would give him a quick tour of the camp and allow him to have a rest.  Instead, he was led to a tent that reminded him of his father’s with its shabby exterior.  He was pushed inside with a wink and promises of hot food and spirits later.

 

He recognised the burgundy-haired witch and she looked nervous.  He didn’t understand why she was there. He’d seen her wandering the corridors of the Ministry for ages.  She was always quiet, demure, and efficient.

 

“Daphne?”  Ron asked and she flinched.

 

“Draco,”  she nodded.  “It’s been awhile.  I’m not staying, I don’t care what Nott expected.  I’m not risking anything more for any of you. I’ve done my duty to _you_ and my family.”  Daphne’s light blue eyes narrowed and Ron knew that the witch knew the truth.  He swallowed hard and braced for the fallout, but it didn’t come. “I’m returning to England.  I’m not coming here again. I’m sorry, but—“

 

“I understand,”  Ron interjected. “I wouldn’t want you to do any more than you’re comfortable doing.  Inform Nott that you are free to leave. I shan’t bother you again.”

 

Ron understood the complexities of family versus duty.  It was a fine line between right and wrong. He had discovered years before that most things fell into varying shades of grey.  He didn’t like it, not one bit, but he understood it.

 

“Thank you,”  Daphne breathed.  Her feet moved forward of their own accord and then she embraced him.  Ron’s hand hung awkwardly at his side and his eyes swung to an irritated Astoria.  “Hug me back. Shag her if you wish to keep up appearances. It’s expected of you.  I’ll contact Potter for you. Stay alive.” Daphne’s barely perceptible whispers sounded through him like trumpets.

 

He was in more danger than he thought and he hadn’t a way out.  Ron knew he had inadvertently dropped one of the Portkeys after he ran from the fucking boar.  He hadn’t the time to see which had fallen as he was afraid for his life. From the looks of it, it would be some time before he had the opportunity to inspect his belongings.

 

Astoria Greengrass stamped her boots angrily.  She never liked to share and she certainly had absolutely no intentions of sharing Draco Malfoy.  She’d waited years upon years for this moment and her bloody sister was not going to steal it from her.

 

At least Draco seemed stiff and disinterested, which helped to soothe Astoria’s ire.  She ignored them in favour of stepping toward the modest bedchamber just off the large main room.  She expected better really. It wasn’t nearly as grand as she believed it should be, though at least the sheets were silk.

 

“What are you doing?”  Ron asked quietly and loosened his green pinstriped tie.

 

Astoria batted her sooty lashes and popped the top three buttons of her form-fitting robes.  She carefully unhooked the attached cape and laid it on the bottom of the four-poster. She knew she had his attention, especially when his grey eyes dipped to her barely exposed creamy swell.

 

“I thought it was fairly obvious.”

 

Ron’s natural inclination was to avert his eyes, but Draco Malfoy wouldn’t have done that.  He would have smirked and spat an innuendo. Ron knew the sexy little brunette was waiting for something and it definitely wasn’t his silence.

 

“Go on then,”  Ron demanded with an affected show of apathy.

 

Astoria was giddy with excitement.  Her moment had finally arrived. Draco Malfoy had finally noticed her as more than Daphne’s little sister.  She might have snogged Theodore Nott a handful of times and allowed him to grope her breasts, but her innocence she had saved for Draco.

 

She separated the bodice of her robes easily and allowed the daring green to pool at her feet.  Astoria stepped over the chiffon easily enough and preened in her black corset. She knew it showcased her breasts, which were probably her best feature and turned slowly on her heel.

 

“Nice arse, Stori,”  Theo chuckled from the doorjamb while he watched Astoria’s antics.  “Malfoy, here.”

 

Theo shoved a cracked tumbler of firewhiskey into the blond’s hands and offered Astoria a small sherry glass.  He waited until they had tossed back the alcohol before he retrieved the glasses as well as Astoria’s gown. The tension was high and he had absolutely no desire to remain.

 

“Thanks,”  said Ron after the burn in his throat had ebbed.

 

“Thought you could use it.  I see Stori is anxious to get on with things.  Would you like your paddle? I’m fairly certain I saw it in the bureau.”  Theo moved across the bedchamber and retrieved it from the bureau.

 

“P-paddle?  No, I don’t want to be paddled.  If that’s your intention, I’ll be leaving right now.  Nott, my gown.” Astoria growled angrily, but neither wizard paid her any mind.

 

“It seems she’s forgotten her place, Nott,”  Ron sneered. “Why don’t you remind her.”

 

Ron removed his blazer and waistcoat as he waited for Nott to follow his orders.  He settled on the side of the bed and arched an eyebrow in Theo’s direction. The Slytherin was mildly impressed with the way Weasley impersonated Draco and tossed Astoria’s dress onto the blue flowered armchair in the corner.

 

“Assume the position,”  Theo barked and Astoria jumped.

 

Ron was slightly impressed with Nott’s air of authority and somewhat intrigued when the barely clad witch bent over the chest that was set at the foot of the four-poster.  He was naïve as far as such things were concerned and his eyes nearly popped from his head when the first blow was struck. He gulped audibly and forced himself to remain still.

 

Astoria stared at the space above Draco’s head and forced her body to relax.  She had been trained for this. She had been told to expect this but had believed it would be Draco dealing the blows.  The first slap of wood against her arse caused her to yelp. She wished she had worn proper knickers rather than scraps of lace, especially when Theo kicked apart her feet before the second blow.

 

“Count them,”  Ron nonchalantly commented and even Theo nodded in appreciation.  It seemed the Weasley bloke caught on quickly and that would keep him alive for a bit at least.  

 

“Three,”  Astoria winced between tightly clenched teeth.

 

“How many should I administer?”  Theo asked as he swung the paddle with more force than necessary.

 

“Five.  If she gives me trouble, I’m more than capable of continuing her punishments.”  Ron reclined on the four-poster and folded his arms behind his head.

 

It was nice to feel powerful.  It was also slightly disconcerting, especially when the tears welled in Astoria’s eyes.  He nearly felt guilty, but Draco wouldn’t, therefore, Ron didn’t. It was far easier to pretend to be a pompous arse and that also scared Ron.

 

“By your leave,”  Theo mocked lightly with a curt bow.

 

“Best leave and see to that bint you left in the wood,”  Ron growled. “Unless you’d like to observe while she sucks my cock?  Did you think your spellwork was impeccable or that I would be incapable of identifying a simple Disillusionment Charm?”

 

Theo retreated from the anger and for a moment, he was absolutely certain it was Draco glaring at him with simmering rage.  It was better that way, he decided. It was entirely too dangerous for him to attempt to compartmentalise the Weasley and separating him from Draco.  It would be entirely too easy to slip and that would put them both in peril, not that Theo cared much about Weasley.

 

“Nott’s got a girl?”  Astoria crinkled her nose in distaste and stood straight.

 

“No one told you to speak,”  Ron hissed and easily caught the paddle Nott tossed him.  He slapped it against his palm and glowered at the insipid witch until she had enough sense to look sufficiently abashed.  “Nott, go.”

 

Theo readily complied and Astoria was suddenly nervous.  She was alone with him, the wizard she’d dreamt of for her entire adolescence.  She knew the rumours weren’t true. She knew Draco Malfoy would never fucking court that Mudblood.  It was idle gossip, the way most things were when a small group was trapped together in the middle of nowhere.

 

“Is it true that you’ve interest in that Mudblood?”  Astoria asked quietly.

 

“What business is it of yours?”  Ron sneered. He was not going to discuss Hermione.  It would only prove to be a distraction and he couldn’t risk it, not if he valued his life, which he did.

 

“Father said if things had gone differently, we would have been wed.”  Astoria shifted her weight between her boot-clad feet and avoided the probing grey eyes.

 

“Is that so?  Come on then, show me what I would have got.”

 

He patted the empty space beside him and Astoria drew a ragged breath.  She’d heard the rumours of his callous behaviours, but to experience them firsthand was unsettling.  She wasn’t sure she wanted anything to do with him anymore, but it was too late. Despite his absences, everyone knew the encampment was his and to disobey him led to certain death.

 

Astoria procrastinated the inevitable by pausing to remove her boots.  She couldn’t force her fingers to remove her knickers or her corset, but her boots, she could do that.  She tiptoed along the chilly flooring and climbed into the bed with her eyes closed.

 

He grabbed her roughly and she yelped in alarm.  Her arse throbbed from her punishments and being forced to straddle his lap didn’t help.  The way his fingers roughly prodded her sore bum caused her to wince, as did the tear of her knickers.

 

“Those were my best knickers,”  she breathed.

 

“Keep talking and I’ll shove my cock down your throat,”  he hissed while his fingers rapidly loosened the laces of her corset.

 

Astoria blinked and she was completely starkers on Draco Malfoy’s lap.  She was concerned that he was still fully clothed but based on the bulge in his trousers, she knew he was aroused.  He fumbled with her breasts, squeezing and tugging on them as if he’d never seen such things before and she didn’t like it one bit.  She’d heard the rumours of his prowess in the bedroom, but she imagined they were sorely exaggerated.

 

She didn’t like the way he watched her.  She didn’t like the way he twisted her hardened nipples, despite her winces.  She didn’t like the way his fingers prod between her thighs and gasped when his forefinger slipped inside her.

 

“Your face says no, but your cunt says yes.”  He laughed and stroked her softly as he greedily suckled at her breast.  “If you want to go, this is the only chance you’ll have to escape. However, never enter my dwelling again.”

 

Astoria blinked rapidly and weighed her options.  She could leave, but she’d be forced to face the wrath of her mother.  Her mother was determined to see her youngest daughter become the next Lady Malfoy and it was up to Astoria to fulfil such dreams.  She was to lie with Draco and fall pregnant. Afterwards, everything else would fall into place.

 

“I’m fine,”  she whispered.

 

He pushed her off his lap and shoved her onto her back.  Astoria instinctively closed her legs, but he wrenched them open and simply stared at her glistening sex.  She blushed and averted her light eyes when he began to undress, as she knew the moment was nearly upon her.

 

She reached for him when she felt his weight wedged between her legs and he grasped her wrists in one hand.  He slammed them over her head and his eyes said what his mouth did not. She was not to touch him and Astoria squirmed.

 

She took her time and studied him the very second he closed his eyes.  She ignored the hard length that probed between her thighs and focused on his pale chest.  She was curious about the light scars that slashed across him, but she only gasped as he pushed into her.

 

She felt very full and tears pricked the corners of her eyes.  Her hands were numb from the force of his grip, but it was nothing in comparison to the burning sensation as his hips rocked to and fro.  Astoria squeezed her eyes closed tight and breathed through her nose.

 

He was gentle, she supposed, but it wasn’t necessarily enjoyable until he was fully seated.  There was something about his pubic bone that nearly drove her wild as it pressed against her.  She had been warned by her sister, as well as her mother, that her first coupling would not be enjoyable and it wasn’t.  

 

It wasn’t filled with screams of pain or tearing sensations, but it was quite uncomfortable.  Astoria knew Draco seemed to enjoy himself based on his low grunts and waning attention to her bouncing breasts.  His thrusts grew erratic and his hands yanked on her hips with such force, small gasps escaped her surprised lips until suddenly, it was over.

 

Astoria cringed when he withdrew and crinkled her nose at the sensation of fluids pooled between her legs.  No one had mentioned anything about the mess involved and it was considerably off-putting. It was then she realised, she didn’t want to have his children.  She didn’t want to couple again. She didn’t want any of it and knew she would have to confess such things to her mother.

 

“You’re satisfied then?”  Astoria asked quietly while she sought the duvet to cover her nudity.

 

“For now,”  he replied. Ron knew he should probably say something scathing and pondered for a moment.  “Your sister was better. Go clean up. I’ll send for you later.”

 

Ron’s eyes remained closed while he listened to the brunette witch scurry around his dwelling.  Despite the fact he was doing what he knew needed to be done; the guilt was immediate and overwhelming.

 

“What have I gotten myself into?”  He wondered aloud before he fell to slumber.

 

* * *

 

He strode through the wards with an air of authority.  It was early, possibly too early for her to be awake, but it didn’t stop him from barging into the cottage.  The air was warm, which was a damn sight better than the frigid temperatures outside.

 

He rubbed his hands together and barely managed to keep from stomping his feet to return them to warmth.  The fireplace crackled and popped the way they all do as he gazed about the empty great room. He was tempted to recline upon the settee, but the sound of padded feet drew him further inside.

 

He stepped into the kitchen silently and watched her open and close the cupboards.  She set the tea on the counter and the kettle on the stove. She looked quite fetching in her nightwear and he was pleased to see it was suitable for the weather.

 

It was strangely calming to watch Hermione Granger in domesticity.  He wanted it. He craved it. He needed it, but he wasn’t positive it would come to pass, not that it stopped him from hoping for it.

 

“Hermione?”

 

She shrieked and nearly dropped her empty mug.  She set it on the workspace and turned toward him with a frown.  She watched the way he stared at her, sort of wide-eyed and it wasn’t like him.  When his hand rose to his pale hair and scratched his head, she gasped.

 

“R—“

 

“Don’t say it,”  he begged.

 

She nodded hurriedly and stood on her toes to peek into the garden.  She sighed in relief when she saw Benedict happily puttering away in the garden patch.  It wouldn’t buy them much time, but it was better than nothing.

 

“I knew it was you,”  she whispered just before she raced across the small kitchen and flung herself into his arms.

 

Hermione pouted slightly when he didn’t try to kiss her.  In fact, he didn’t try to do anything at all and merely patted her back.  It wasn’t like him to be so standoffish and she didn’t like it. She needed his comfort.  She needed to know they were alright; they would always be alright no matter what happened.

 

“I’ll have to do better next time, if there is a next time.”  He took her hand in his and led her directly to the sitting room.  “Tell me about him. Tell me what he does.”

 

Hermione gathered her thick flannel dressing gown around her tightly and held it closed at the neck.  She didn’t want to discuss it. She didn’t want to tell him what had happened within the confines of the cottage.  She didn’t want to admit the sort of woman, the sort of witch she had become, but she also wanted to help him.

 

“I’m not sure what you’re asking,”  Hermione sniffed in affected disdain and angrily crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

 

“Don’t be like that,”  he sighed and sat beside her on the settee.  It was closer than she would have liked. It was reminiscent of Malfoy honestly and she wasn’t sure what to make of it.  “When he arrives, what does he do?”

 

“He tells me to assume the position,”  Hermione whispered and dropped her eyes to the floral pattern on her dressing gown.  “Usually that segues into a spanking, depending on his mood it could be free handed or with his bloody paddle.”

 

“You’re blushing, Hermione.  Do you like it?” He leant close and brushed against her leg with a slow smile she found completely unnerving.

 

Hermione swallowed and took a long, slow, deep, breath.  She spun toward him quickly and he saw the fire in her eyes.  It excited him and his fingers itched to tug at the tie of her robe.

 

“I don’t like that it’s him doing it, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy it on some level.”  The frosty tone told him he should probably retreat, but he couldn’t help but press forward.

 

“What else then?  Don’t hold back on me now.”  

 

He tossed his arm over her shoulders and drew her into his side.  Despite the stiffness of her body language, he was quite aroused. She watched his hand smooth the flannel and grasp her thigh and it made her nervous.  She didn’t want to shag him. She couldn’t think of shagging him, not when he looked the way he did.

 

He was different than she remembered.  He wasn’t nervous and bumbling. He was confident and sure.  He reminded her of Malfoy and it was incredibly difficult to keep them separated when Ron was acting the way he was.  Of course, that was the moment he pushed open her dressing gown and calmly hefted her right breast in his hand.

 

“I don’t understand why this is important!”  Hermione cried, yet she didn’t push his hand off her breast, nor the other that lightly caressed her covered thigh.

 

“Just tell me,”  he breathed just before he licked her earlobe.  “Does he touch you like this? Are you bare when he spanks you?”

 

“He uhm, he flips up my skirt, tears off my knickers, kicks my legs apart, and spanks me.”  

 

Hermione found their conversation strangely titillating and adjusted until her back was firmly against his chest.  Her dressing gown gaped open and she watched him pluck the buttons on her flannel top until the thin strip of flesh between her breasts was on display.  She held her breath when his free hand cupped her sex through her bottoms.

 

“Is that it?”  He asked with his lips against her throat.

 

“Afterwards, he checks to see if I’m wet,”  Hermione mumbled the last few words so softly, he missed them.

 

“Checks to see if you’re what, love?”  He slid his hand into her bottoms and teased her over the cotton of her knickers.

 

“Wet, alright?  He shoves his fingers in me and checks to see if I’m wet.”  Hermione’s voice trembled, laced with humiliation and arousal.

 

He groaned against her cheek and pushed the damp cotton to the side.  He gently parted her lips and shoved two fingers into her wet depths without pause.  She gasped and clutched at his wrist.

 

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief tainted in disappointment when he withdrew.  It was short lived and it was easy to fall on her back on the settee. It was easy to let him push her dressing gown off her shoulders.  It was easy to raise her hands in the air when her flannel was dragged over her head. It was even easier to wiggle out of her bottoms and lie naked as he simply stared at her.

 

“How on earth are you not fat with the next Malfoy?”  He asked.

 

“What kind of question is that?  You brought me the packets of Muggle Contraception from Harry,”  Hermione snorted. “I’ve taken them fairly regularly and stuff them beneath the tick, not even the elf has discovered them yet.  Not to mention the fact, Snape was apparently giving me a Contraception Potion rather than a Calming Draught. If you see him, be sure to thank him for me.  Are you finished staring yet?” Hermione spoke quickly with the slightest edge of hysteria, not that he noticed.

 

Rather than answer, he tweaked a puckered nipple and smirked.  He held her eyes and quickly shed his trousers. Her eyes dropped to his weeping erection.  She shook her head and moved as though she wished to sit up.

 

“Ron—“  she whispered harshly and shoved at his hips.

 

“Don’t fucking call me that,” he snapped and pushed on her shoulders.

 

“What should I call you then?  I can’t call you Malfoy, that’s what I call him.”  Hermione groaned in irritation, but then his body was covering hers and she didn’t know what to feel.

 

“Draco,” he whispered just before he kissed her.

 

“Wait,”  she pleaded.  “There’s something you’ve got to know before we have s-sex.”  He rolled his eyes and rocked back onto his knees. “Malfoy might have given me a Lust Potion and asked me to marry him.  I-I might have said yes while under the influences of it, but the Ministry wouldn’t uphold it, would they?”

 

He quirked his head in a way that was eerily reminiscent of Malfoy and licked his lips.  He stared at her until her chest flushed a pretty shade of pink. Her hands covered her breasts and so he allowed his grey eyes to segue to her femininity.  

 

“Tell me all about it, Hermione.  What were you doing? Where was he?  Did he get on bended knee and present you with some ostentatious bauble?”  He toyed with her hands, tugged on her fingers, but Hermione was preoccupied with the uncustomary edge to his voice.

 

She didn’t like the way he leant over her.  She didn’t like the suspicious sheen in his eyes.  She didn’t like the way his fingers thrust in her and she frowned.  This wasn’t like him. Her Ron was kind and loving, even when he was disgruntled.  He never consciously did anything to cause her pain.

 

“Stop it!”  Hermione shouted and shoved at him until he toppled over the side of the settee.

 

She leapt to her feet and dragged her dressing gown around her as quickly as she could manage.  Hermione gathered her dark curls and tied them in a knot at the base of her neck while she glared at him.  She didn’t care that he was completely starkers. She was furious.

 

“Hermione—“

 

“No, _Draco_ , you don’t get to do this.  You don’t get to come here after weeks and weeks of nothing and try and shag me while begging for details of what’s happened to me.  I haven’t asked what you’ve done, have I? No, and why is that? I don’t care, that’s why. It doesn’t matter what I have to do. It doesn’t matter what you have to do.  It doesn’t matter that Draco Malfoy asked me to marry him before he fucked me with his tongue. It doesn’t matter! Do you understand?!”

 

“He fucked you with his tongue?”  He asked and while the amusement danced on the corner of his lips, she was not amused.

 

“Yes, yes he did,”  Hermione growled. She turned on her slipper clad foot and stalked toward the kitchen.  She was determined to have her cup of sodding tea. “AND I LIKED IT!” She shrieked and slammed the door.

 

He chuckled and slipped into his trousers.  Gods he loved her temper as much as he hated it.  It had always been a source of contention between them, but she was beautiful when she was angry.  Perhaps it was the reason he enjoyed to rile her.

 

“She’ll come back,”  he muttered confidently.  “She always does.”

 

He shrugged into his button down and frowned at the scattered buttons.  He didn’t recall tearing off his shirt like a madman, but stranger things had happened.  He carefully repaired them and shoved his wand into the waistband of his trousers and crossed his arms.

 

“When did you, how did you?”  Hermione breathlessly asked as she held out her hand.

 

“I told you,”  he shrugged.

 

“Y-you’re serious,”  Hermione exclaimed. Her breaths escaped in tiny little pants of anxiety.  “I told you about Malfoy and—“

 

“When?”  He interrupted in agitation.  “Did he say when he wants to marry you?”

 

“Eve of the New Year.”  Hermione shrugged, still unable to tear her eyes from the tasteful menagerie of emeralds and diamonds that decorated her finger.  “This isn’t your taste.”

 

Hermione felt a tingle up her spine and ordinarily, she trusted that bit of intuition.  It usually warned her against foes and even untruths, however, she was unsure. The way that he stood reminded her of Ron, but the tilt of his head was Malfoy.  The smile on his lips was Ron, but the fire in his eyes was Malfoy. The way he said her name. The subtle strokes and whispers. The wand tucked into the waistband of his trousers.  It was a bright flashing sign of uncertainty.

 

“Of course it’s not, Hermione.  I had to go to his vault and I chose something I thought you’d like.  We’ll simply marry prior. You worry far too much, love.” The inflexion in his voice startled her and she backed away slowly.

 

She strained to hear the sounds of Benedict’s feet as he wandered around the cottage, yet all was silent.  Hermione needed the bloody elf. She actually needed him and he was nowhere to be found. He was always underfoot!  He was always interfering, except, apparently, when she required his astute eyes to discern the truths she herself could not see.

 

“I think you should go.  I think you should take the ring and go.”  Hermione twisted the intricate band, yet her fingers refused to adhere to her commands.

 

He tossed his head back and laughed.  It was a strange sound and even stranger sight.  Draco Malfoy’s tousled blond hair shook with mirth and his lips spread into a wide smile.  The sound was foreign and she was unable to recognize the difference between fact and fiction.

 

“As you wish, Hermione,”  he scoffed and shoved his arms into his blazer.  He strutted to the front door with a swagger she’d never seen before and she bit her lip in order to remain silent.  “Good luck getting that ring off your finger.” He stepped through the door and his laughter echoed in the distance.

 

Hermione bit her knuckle until it ached with the strength of her jaw.  She twisted and pulled on the sparkling ring until her finger reddened, yet it refused to budge.  She would have cried, if she had any tears left. Instead, she sunk to the floor and stared at the flickering firelight until her vision blurred.  She’d never felt so alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: RavenLight_Dragon


End file.
